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FONDIE 


FONDIE 


BY 

EDWARD   C.  BOOTH 

author  of  "bella,"  "the  post  girl," 
"the  doctor's  lass,"  etc. 


D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  :         :         :         :  1916 


COPTBIQHT,   1916,   BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FONDIE 


359335 


I 


FONDIE 

PART    I 


IF  only  I  had  Dod  Marritt's  slate  and  Dod  Marritt  with 
his  colored  chalks  to  help  me,  what  a  book  the  two  of  us 
might  begin!  Dod  can  draw  things  better  than  most  folk 
can  see  them,  and  an  infinitely  finer  color.  The  pictures  he 
has  rubbed  out  with  his  flat  hand  and  coat  sleeve  alone  would 
constitute  a  chronicle  of  all  Whivvle,  and  more  than  fill  the 
obese  family  Bible  with  the  big  brass  clasp  beneath  the  parlor 
pelargonium,  that  smells  of  Moses  and  damp  cupboards  when 
opened,  and  has  Dod's  name  in  full,  spelled  properly,  and  the 
date  of  Dod's  birth,  on  the  flyleaf  In  Dod's  mother's  Sunday 
writing,  all  written  over  ruled  lines  on  a  down  gradient  and 
shaking  like  Isaac  Parfitt's  hand  or  Deacon  Smeddy's  voice 
when  he  says  Amen  with  both  eyes  shut. 

On  wet  nights  when  it  Increases  one's  own  comfort  to  think 
of  other  folk  abroad,  and  Dod's  father  says  complacently: 
"I  wouldn't  care  to  be  driving  wum  frev  Hoomuth  [home 
from  Hunmouth]  ti-neet,  Missus,"  and  his  wife  retorts:  "Thoo 
hadn't  need" ;  or  nights  of  boisterous  wind,  when  Boreas  seems 
to  tussle  for  possession  of  the  roof  with  both  hands,  after 
the  fashion  that  Dod  and  his  sister  scuflfle  for  the  slate,  and 
at  times  seems  to  have  got  the  mastery  and  gone  off  with  it; 
and  the  whistle  through  the  keyhole  in  the  kitchen  door  is  as 
piercing  as  Dod  can  make  with  four  fingers  in  his  mouth,  and 
will  blow  a  candle  out  at  six  paces;  and  the  oilcloth  flaps 
distractedly  like  a  wounded  bird;  and  the  snecks  rattle,  and 
the  lamp  is  seized  with  paroxysms,  and  goes  blue  in  the  face, 

I 


2  FONDIE 

thrusting  oiif  a  tremendous  smoky  flame  like  a  contorted 
tongue  halfway  up  the  chimney;  or  on  nights  of  biting  frost 
when  the  door-latch  tingles  in  the  fingers,  and  the  very  stars 
seem  to  shiver  with  cold;  or  nights  of  snow  when  the  snow- 
flakes  float  down  the  flue  and  spit  on  the  wet  coals;  these  are 
the  nights  when  Dod  pours  out  his  chalks  from  the  pencil-box 
upon  the  kitchen  table,  and  rubs  his  coat  cuff  over  the  slate's 
surface,  and  crosses  his  right  leg  over  his  left,  and  puffs  out 
his  right  eye,  with  the  brow  cocked  up  over  it,  and  cries  his 
customary  formula  to  the  company: 

"Noo!     What  mun  I  draw?" 

But  what  does  Dod  not  draw  when  once  he  warms  to  the 
work,  and  his  imagination  runs  away  with  him,  kindled  at  one 
moment  by  the  kitchen's  praise,  and  at  another  by  its  denial 
of  his  ability  ? 

Stack-fires,  school-feasts,  anniversaries,  weddings,  and  fun- 
erals he  can  re-create  with  rare  fidelity  and  splendor.  There 
is  no  subject  from  Hunmouth  Fair  to  Jarge  Amery's  nose  he 
cannot  present  with  truth  and  adorn  with  imagination. 

None. 

.  .  .  Except  perhaps  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  there  is  one  subject  in 
which  his  crayons  fail.     He  cannot  draw  Blanche. 

When  the  artist,  after  long  incubation  and  much  enlargement 
of  his  right  eye,  pushes  the  long-secreted  slate  beneath  the 
noses  of  the  expectant,  himself  filled  with  creative  confidence 
and  zeal,  saying: 

"Noo  then !  Look  ye.  Here  we  are.  There's  choch  door, 
look  ye,  and  there's  Fondie  wi'  his  Sunday  coat  shutting  up 
'armonium,  and  there's  Blanche,  see  ye  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  The  atmosphere  grows  strangely  unresponsive  on  a 
sudden. 

"Wheer's  Blanche?"  asks  Dod's  brother,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  that  seems  acquainted 
with  no  compromise. 

"There,"  says  the  artist,  pointing  one  of  his  many  fingers 


FONDIE  3 

in  her  direction — though  not  the  most  confident  of  them,  and 
one  that  hesitates  to  indicate  her  position  in  the  picture  too 
closely.     ''Thoo's  looking  at  her  all  time." 

"That's  none  Blanche,"  says  Dod's  brother  firmly. 

"Isn't  it?"  Dod  contends,  though  with  shaken  assurance. 
"Who  is  it  then?" 

"I  don't  knaw,  and  I  don't  care!'*  Dod's  brother  replies. 
"But  it  isn't  Blanche,  so  thoo  can  rub  her  oot  onny  time  thoo 
likes." 

"Gie  us  slate,"  says  the  artist  resentfully. 

"Tek  her,"  says  Dod's  brother. 

"I  will  an'  all." 

"Neabody's  stopping  thee." 

"Let's  have  'od  [hold]." 

"Noo  then!"  interposes  Dod's  mother.  "No  quarrellin* 
i'  kitchen.  If  thoo  can't  draw  wi'oot  lossin'  temper  I'll  tek 
slate  away  frev  thee  an*  lock  her  up.     So  thoo  knaws." 


II 


WHEN  Dod's  mother  gives  him  a  slice  of  cake — not  the 
common  sort  he  eats  with  apathy  on  Sundays,  as  of 
right,  but  the  richly  fruited  kind  for  festivals  and 
high  occasions:  the  sort  that,  when  he  petitions  for  a  second 
helping,  makes  his  mother  ask,  in  cutting  it,  "Diz  thoo  want 
ti  be  sick?" — it  costs  him  infinite  trouble  to  determine  precisely 
at  what  portion  of  its  circumference  he  shall  begin. 

To  break  into  a  book  is  a  problem  not  much  easier,  for  begin- 
nings are  arbitrary  things,  and  to  have  to  choose  one  out  of 
so  many  is  sufficient  to  make  a  man's  judgment  falter. 

One  might,  of  course,  choose  one's  beginning  as  the  Anniver- 
sary preacher  chooses  his  text,  who,  having  given  it  out  twice 
and  cleared  his  throat,  and  closed  his  Bible  to  let  everybody 
see  that  what  follows  is  to  be  extempore,  adds: 


4  FONDIE 

"In  order  to  understand  these  striking  words,  my  brethren, 
It  will  be  necessary  to  go  back  a  few  centuries  in  the  world's 
history  and  inquire  what  was  the  precise  state  of  Israel  at  that 
time,  and  try  to  understand  something  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  they  were  so  forcibly  uttered." 

Or  if  we  were  Deacon  Smeddy,  we  would  begin  with  a  bold 
invocation  of  the  Scriptures,  asking: 

"What  diz  Psalmist  say?"  or  "What  diz  Book  tell  us  i' 
twenty-second  verse  o'  the  fourteenth  chapter  o'  the  Second 
Book  o'  Kings?" — questions  that  impose  silence  on  the 
doughtiest  and  make  not  a  few  of  us  wish  the  Bible  had  never 
been  written,  as  Dod  does.  Even  old  Mrs.  Winthrop  has  been 
heard  to  say: 

"Book  was  meant  ti  be  a  bit  o'  comfort  ti  folk" — as  if  the 
Deacon  had  misconceived  its  purpose;  and  nobody  would  ever 
question  Mrs.  Winthrop's  piety,  for  she  had  lost  two  husbands 
and  five  children,  and  had  received  so  many  other  signal  tokens 
of  the  Almighty's  attention  that  she  had  come  to  be  regarded 
as  peculiarly  belonging  to  Him. 

Or,  again,  we  might  begin  with  Fondie,  perched  on  his  ladder, 
painting  rain-spouts  as  if  he  loved  them;  or  practicing  on  his 
aunt's  harmonium  some  hot  summer  evening  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 


Ill 


FONDIE  was  not,  in  the  first  place,  his  baptismal  name. 
Fondie's  real  name  was  Enos — after  him  in  whose  day 
men,  we  are  told,  first  began  to  call  upon  the  name  of 
the  Lord  and  incidentally  to  make  themselves  a  nuisance. 
The  choice  was  Fondie's  father's,  and  being  thus  doubly 
sanctified  by  parental  will  and  Holy  Scripture,  Fondie  was 
far  too  pious  and  too  dutiful  to  quarrel  with  it,  albeit  he 
ventured  to  confess  that  he  sometimes  wished  it  might  have 
been  put  into  his  father's  head  to  christen  him  Jubal,  after 


FONDIE  S 

the  great  progenitor  of  all  them  that  handle  the  harp  and  the 
organ — though  his  modesty  admitted  he  would  have  been  no 
great  adornment  to  the  name. 

"Even  name  o'  Enos,"  said  he,  "is  ower  good  for  me,  I 
misdoot." 

And  so  Whivvle  seemed  to  think,  for  it  never  called  him  by 
it,  and  the  name  was  as  submerged  as  the  old  kettle  in  Dod's 
father's  duck-pond,  that  comes  to  light  only  now  and  again  in 
time  of  drought,  offering  then  but  a  target  for  missiles  and 
irony. 

Because  of  his  filial  obedience  and  because  of  his  Mosaic 
humility,  and  because  Fondie  never  showed  the  least  vestiges 
of  wrath  and  passion  that  disfigure  his  fellows,  and  never  used 
bad  language — even  when  unprovoked — and  was  not  a  bit  of 
good  among  the  girls,  Whivvle  called  him  "Fondie,"  which 
being  interpreted  means  "Foolish  One,"  and  Fondie  accepted 
the  name  with  that  unquestioning  humility  which  marked  his 
acceptance  of  all  the  rest  of  life's  gifts,  good  and  evil.  There 
was  not  a  child  in  Whivvle,  of  an  age  to  walk  on  all  fours  and 
lisp  the  name,  but  might  call  him  Fondie  without  fear,  and 
did.  Male  infants  strutting  in  their  first  breeches,  with  big 
foreheads  and  jam  and  bread-crumb  mustaches  extending  as 
far  back  as  the  ears,  would  apostrophize  him  as  Fondie  and 
never  wince,  saying,  "Fondie!  .  .  .  thy  feythur  wants  thee. 
Thoo's  ti  look  sharp,"  and  Fondie — far  from  displaying  wrath 
or  threatening  them  with  condign  punishment,  as  other  men 
who  could  be  cited  might  have  done — would  merely  express 
gratitude  for  the  information  and  say  politely,  "Thank  ye, 
Willim,"  or  "I'se  obliged  ti  ye,  James  Henry,"  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  obey  the  message  with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  a 
full-grown  man  or  his  own  father  had  delivered  it. 

On  the  big  board  that  stood  boldly  on  its  tall  stilts  above 
the  yard  end  in  the  main  street — that  none  but  the  foolhardy 
ever  sought  to  climb,  or  those  among  the  inexperienced  whose 
ears  had  never  tasted  those  sharp  and  sudden  fires  lurking  in 


6  FONDIE 

the  wheelwright's  wrathful  hand — Fondle  figured  as  "and 
Son"  in  multicolored  letters  with  gold-leaf  shading  (his  own 
handiwork,  and  the  patient  toil  of  weeks),  and  Father  and 
Son  together  were  proclaimed  to  the  world  at  large  as  Smiths, 
Wheelwrights,  Carpenters,  Agricultural  Implement  Makers, 
and  Undertakers.  Fondie's  father  was  as  dark  a  man  in  later 
life  as  ever  walked  out  of  the  pages  of  the  Bible.  He  was  as 
laughterless  as  Jehovah,  and  as  summary.  Nothing  ever  seemed 
to  propitiate  him — not  even  the  strong  drink  of  which  he  was 
an  imbiber  in  due  seasons.  His  beard  was  his  passport  to  piety. 
What  the  wheelwright  must  have  looked  without  it  is  incon- 
ceivable. St.  Peter  minus  his  keys  would  have  been  no  more 
distinguishable  from  the  rest  of  the  company  of  hirsute  apostles 
than  Fondie's  father  deprived  of  his  beard  that  flowed  down 
far  below  the  lowest  button  of  his  Sunday  waistcoat  and  blew 
between  his  legs  in  a  head  wind  like  an  apron,  or  over  his 
shoulder,  splitting  to  either  side  of  his  neck  and  wrapping  his 
cheeks  as  if  it  were  a  comforter;  and  getting  Into  the  cog- 
wheels when  he  stooped  to  examine  machinery,  and  into  the 
dust  when  he  knelt  by  a  reaper,  and  catching  all  the  shavings 
of  the  workshop,  and  even  on  occasions  such  substantial  articles 
as  nails  and  gimlets  that  the  wheelwright  sought  all  round  the 
yard  and  only  discovered  at  the  White  Cow. 

But  there  is  no  burden  so  cumbersome  that  man  will  not 
sufFer  for  pride's  sake,  and  one  can  bear  with  a  barrow-load  of 
disadvantages  for  the  glory  of  a  beard  that  is  twice  the  length 
of  any  within  six  parishes,  and  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  landmarks  of  the  district,  like  the  church  or  the  Butter 
Cross;  a  beard  that  has  not  known  the  shears  or  done  homage 
to  the  knife  these  thirty  years,  but  seems  established  in  its  own 
righteousness  like  the  very  Scriptures. 

It  was  one  of  the  chief  spiritual  assets  of  the  little  red-brick 
chapel  where  he  worshipped  among  the  Primevals  on  Sunday, 
just  as  Deacon  Smeddy's  side-whiskers  and  texts  were  with 
the  Wesleyans.     Till  the  wheelwright  sat  down  in  his  place 


FONDIE  7 

with  the  sacred  beard  grasped  in  his  hand,  his  brows  rugged 
as  Mount  Carmel,  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  seemed  shy  of  descend- 
ing. One  morose  "Amen"  emerging  out  of  the  wheelwright's 
beard  was  of  more  account  in  worship  than  half  a  dozen  halle- 
lujahs from  any  other  throat. 

In  his  early  days  the  wheelwright  had  been  musician  to  the 
Brotherhood,  and  led  the  hymns  with  a  fiddle  hoary  beneath 
the  resin  of  religious  fervor,  drawing  across  the  frosted  strings 
a  bow  so  intensely  arched,  that,  furnished  with  an  arrow,  one 
might  have  shot  birds  with  it.  In  chapel  when  the  hymn  was 
given  out  and  the  Brotherhood  waited  expectantly  for  the 
sound  of  it  with  averted  eyes,  the  wheelwright  had  been  wont 
to  show  like  one  possessed ;  sway  his  body  to  and  fro  as  though 
animated  by  internal  pains,  perspiring  through  anticipation 
already  of  the  energy  he  meant  to  expend ;  wave  his  bow  aloft 
to  the  beat  of  a  whole  bar,  crying  "Yan!  Twoa!  Threeah! 
Fower!"  and  thereat,  with  a  roar  of  frenzy,  make  onslaught 
upon  the  fiddle  with  such  vehemence  that  the  resin  rose  from 
its  bridge  and  belly  in  clouds,  circling  his  head  in  the  sunlight 
like  a  golden  halo,  and  making  even  the  wheelwright  on  occa- 
sions thrust  his  fiddle  to  a  side  and  sneeze  into  his  beard  with 
a  sound  like  the  crash  of  crockery. 

It  is  said  that  the  fiddle  strings  grew  so  hot  in  the  course  of  a 
hymn  that  you  could  not  bear  your  hand  upon  them  for  two 
minutes  after  the  Amen,  and  in  a  long  hymn  the  wheelwright 
(at  his  zenith)  was  forced  to  give  his  instrument  a  rest  for  one 
verse  in  three,  at  least,  to  cool  her  bearings  and  prevent  her 
from  firing.  Dod's  father  said  it  used  to  be  currently  reported 
that  Joe  Bassiemoor  had  fetched  sparks  out  of  her  once  in  dry 
weather  when  he  played  "Glory,  Glory  and  Salvation"  at  a 
camp  meeting,  and  there  is  certainly  no  limit  to  what  zeal 
can  do. 

Fondie's  musical  aspirations  derived  unmistakably  from  this 
parental  source.  From  his  father  he  received  the  hard  rudi- 
ments of  the  fiddle — which  made  his  head  and  knuckles  some- 


8  FONDIE 

times  very  sore,  and  brought  up  lumps  on  his  forehead  like  the 
cobbles  in  front  of  the  tailor's  shop.  In  exchange  for  incon- 
siderable repairs  to  a  sewing-machine  the  wheelwright  picked 
up  the  disjected  members  of  Harker  Webster's  fiddle  that  had 
hung  by  the  neck  to  a  nail  in  the  kitchen  wall  since  the  old 
man's  death,  dropping  to  pieces  a  limb  at  a  time,  like  the  gibbeted 
remains  of  some  malefactor,  and  fitted  the  fiddle  up  for  Fondie 
in  such  spare  moments  as  the  glue-pot  happened  to  be  handy, 
or  he  came  across  a  serviceable  screw  that  looked,  in  the  wheel- 
wright's phraseology,  "like  hoddin' "  (holding).  A  coat  of 
varnish  completed  the  operation,  and  the  fiddle  emerged  from 
the  process  with  such  a  luster  as  few  fly-papers  in  these  de- 
generate days  can  boast.  She  took  a  whole  week  to  dry — 
and  that  not  completely — and  every  night  she  caught  some- 
thing when  the  workshop  was  closed ;  moth,  or  gnat,  or  daddy- 
long-legs. 

But  she  dried,  or  very  nearly,  at  last,  preserving  innumerable 
imprints  of  the  wheelwright's  thumb  where  he  had  felt  of  her 
all  round  the  purfling  each  morning  to  know  how  she  was  get- 
ting on,  and  the  wheelwright  looked  at  Fondie  with  a  lurid  eye, 
and  said : 

"Thoo'll  *a  ti  play  *er." 


IV 


NOTHING  could  have  lain  nearer  to  Fondie's  heart  or 
dearer  to  his  desires. 
He  was  barely  fourteen  at  the  time,  but  he  had 
never  been  like  other  boys ;  he  had  never  rapped  at  lighted  win- 
dows by  night  and  run  away,  or  tied  bricks  and  old  bottles  to 
door-handles ;  or  put  his  tongue  out  and  spread  fingers  from  the 
nose  outwardly  at  adults,  and  been  led  back  to  his  father's 
yard  by  a  single  ear.  For  Fondie  had  ever  loved  the  Law, 
and  his  feet  walked  in  the  paths  of  an  implicit  and  baffling 


FONDIE  9 

obedience.  Before  such  obedience  even  his  father  stood  per- 
plexed, declaring: 

"Lad's  fond.    He'll  do  owt  onnybody  tells  him." 

For  a  Whiwle-born  son  that  humbly  answers,  "I  will,  fey- 
thur,"  when  his  father  bids  him  to  a  task  that  any  self-respect- 
ing son  should  seek  to  shirk,  constitutes  less  of  a  joy  than  of 
bewilderment  to  the  parent  that  begot  him. 

"Gie  us  no  Wills !"  the  wheelwright  has  been  known  to  say. 
"Gie  us  Do's,  and  sharp,  an'  think  on  thoo  dizzn't  answer  me 
back." 

The  sight  of  the  varnished  fiddle  and  the  smell  of  it  roused 
Fondie's  dearest  hopes.  To  him  the  vision  of  his  parent  holding 
forth  the  fiddle  by  the  neck  as  if  it  had  been  a  turkey,  partook 
of  the  nature  of  an  annunciation. 

"I  misdoot  I  lack  skill  ti  handle  her,  feythur,"  he  is  reported 
to  have  said,  "wi'oot  I'se  ti  be  favored  wi'  your  kind  instruc- 
tion." 

"Aye,  thoo  is!"  the  wheelwright  snapped  through  his  beard. 
"An*  thoo'U  be  favored  wi'  summut  else  an'  all  wi'oot  thoo 
shaws  a  bit  o*  sense." 

Albeit  Fondie's  musical  efforts  were  mere  fuel  for  his  sire's 
contempt,  the  first  lump  on  his  bowing  knuckles  was  not  ten 
days  old  when  the  wheelwright  deemed  him  proficient  enough 
(with  an  admonition  that  would  have  taken  the  heart  out  of 
any  less  naturally  humble)  to  play  on  Sunday  to  the  public 
honor  and  glory  of  God.  To  perform  before  the  Almighty  at 
such  short  notice  was  ordeal  sufficiently  terrible  to  make  the 
bowels  of  any  catechumen  tremble — ^let  alone  the  thought  of 
a  parent  with  a  three-foot  beard  that  one  was  liable  to  sit  on 
by  accident  when  the  pew  was  crowded,  and  with  a  wrath 
like  the  refiner's  fire.  If  the  wheelwright  might  have  changed 
places  with  the  Deity  for  the  nonce,  this  occasion  would  have 
been  dispossessed  of  much  of  its  terror — for  all  that  Fondie's 
musical  imperfections  shrank  from  the  impropriety  of  making 
themselves  known  to  such  an  exalted  ear.     He  had  not  reached 


*i^ 


10  F  O  N  D  I  E 

as  yet  the  age  when  he  could  say  "Amen"  and  "Hallelujah** 
aloud  in  chapel,  as  a  relief  to  the  tedium  of  sitting  still. 

Nor  had  Fondie  earned  the  admitted  right  to  cough  twice 
without  receiving  an  admonitory  cuff  from  behind,  or  without 
the  risk  of  having  the  sharp  edge  of  a  hymnbook  thrust  silently 
into  the  small  of  his  back.  To  take  sudden  precedence  of  all 
these  adults,  therefore,  and  be  a  leader  of  men  along  with  his 
father  was  a  prospect  whose  very  brightness  blinded  him  to 
the  glory  of  it.  But  neither  pride  nor  humility  had  long  notice 
in  which  to  exercise  itself.  The  wheelwright's  brief  intimation, 
"Noo,  fetch  thy  fiddle  an*  come  wi*  me!"  fell  like  a  thunder- 
bolt out  of  a  blue  sky  on  the  Sabbath  morning.  Fondie  could 
but  open  his  mouth  incredulously,  drinking  mutely  of  the  air, 
like  a  fish. 

"Ti  house  o*  warship,  feythur?"  he  inquired,  like  one  in 
doubt  of  his  own  intelligence. 

"Wheer  else  an'  all  ?"  the  wheelwright  demanded  caustically. 
"Ti  bed  ?    Wheer  diz  thoo  gan  ti  every  Sabbath  morn  ?'* 

"I  misdoot  my  feythur's  reposin'  ower  mich  confidence  i* 
me,"  Fondie  told  his  mother  in  a  humble  aside,  having  first 
assured  himself  by  a  discreet  glance  that  his  father's  shoulders 
were  turned.  "Fse  jealous  I  shan't  do  his  instruction  a  deal  o* 
credit.    But  sin'  it's  his  will   .    .    .  ** 

He  interred  the  fiddle  reverently  in  the  green  baize  bag  that 
his  sister  had  worked  for  its  reception,  and  accompanied  the 
wheelwright  to  chapel.  That  is  to  say,  he  hurriedly  overtook 
the  paternal  beard  at  the  yard  gate,  to  receive  the  challenge: 
"How  mich  langer  diz  thoo  think  Fse  boon  ti  wait  o'  thee?" 
and  humbly  preceded  him  by  a  couple  of  yards  or  so  to  the 
chapel  door.  To  have  walked  behind  his  father  would  have 
called  forth  the  wheelwright's  stern  displeasure:  "What's  thoo 
skulkin'  aback  o'  me  for?  Come  thy  ways  i'  front,  wheer  I 
can  see  thee."  To  have  walked  abreast  would  have  argued  an 
equality  bordering  on  actual  disrespect  that  the  wheelwright 
would  have  been  the  first  to  censure.     Fondie's  father  walked 


F  O  N  D  I  E  It 

abreast  with  none  .of  his  own  household — not  even  with  his 
own  wife  since  matrimony  had  put  an  end  to  their  courting 
days.  He  accepted  her  as  a  sign  of  the  infirmity  of  the  flesh; 
a  necessary  part  of  man's  temptation,  tribulation,  and  fall,  and 
acknowledged  her  merely  as  he  would  have  acknowledged  the 
sinful  nature  of  his  own  heart.  When  she  accompanied  her 
lord  to  worship — which,  during  the  later  years  of  her  life,  she 
did  at  most  some  twice  or  thrice  on  hot  Sunday  evenings  in 
summer,  to  take  her  annual  exercise  and  air — she  labored 
patiently  in  the  wheelwright's  wake  with  uplifted  petticoats 
and  an  umbrella  clasped  midway  by  the  left  hand,  as  far  behind 
her  husband  as  Fondie  walked  in  front,  and  the  wheelwright 
never  deigned  once  to  turn  his  head,  though  conscious  of  her 
proximity,  saying  a  terse  "Come  on  wi'  thee!"  each  time  she 
stopped,  as  if  she  had  been  a  horse;  and  responding  in  curt 
monosyllables  of  a  repressive  tendency  to  her  thoughtless  com- 
ments on  the  state  of  Whivvle  gardens,  or  the  color-wash  on 
Whivvle  walls  that  had  been  changed  (she  noted)  from  yellow 
to  blue,  or  blue  to  pink,  since  last  year. 

Indeed,  it  was  maintained  that  the  elder  Bassiemoor  looked 
wnth  small  favor  on  the  presence  of  w^omenfolk  at  worship, 
having  been  known  to  say  "they  took  over-much  room  by 
aif,"  and  there  was  "a  deal  more  warship  wi'oot  'em" — chapel, 
in  his  estimation,  being  a  place  designed  for  men  and  the 
Almighty. 

Fondie's  debut  attracted  less  attention  that  it  would  have 
done  had  it  taken  place  under  more  favorable  surroundings, 
but  the  wheelwright's  chapel  was  a  hard  nut  to  crack  for  all 
but  the  most  seasoned  and  practiced  devout.  It  stood  away 
from  the  road  in  a  corner  of  Bless  Allcot's  field,  with  the  hedge 
on  two  sides  of  it,  and  nettle-grown  palings  on  the  other  two^ 
to  keep  Bless  Allcot's  cattle  from  licking  the  paint  off  the  sills, 
or  putting  their  heads  in  at  the  windows  during  divine  service,, 
which  they  did  once  when  the  chapel  was  newly  built  (in  Bless 
Allcot's  father's  time),  and  Bless  Allcot's  father's  black  bull 
2 


12  F  O  N  D  I  E 

came  up  to  tne  open  window  when  Bless  Allcot*s  father  had 
just  got  as  far  as  "O  Lord!"  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  his  face 
tied  up  In  such  a  knot  that  only  those  who  knew  him  well  could 
have  told  where  his  mouth  was  at  the  moment — and  coughed 
grass  and  spittle  all  down  the  back  of  his  neck,  like  one  of  the 
bulls  of  Bashan;  and  some  say  the  old  man  jumped  up  crying 
one  thing,  and  some  say  another,  and  some  say  he  did,  and 
others  say  he  didn't  (though  Dod's  father  vows  he  knows  for  a 
fact  he  did — and  something  else  beside). 

Even  Fondle  sorrowfully  agreed  that  the  chapel  was  poorly 
situated,  and  that  "folk  mud  easy  overlook  her,  or  think  she 
was  a  cowshed."  For  In  summer  Bless  AUcot's  hedge  rose  up 
high  above  her  windows,  precluding  all  vestige  of  hope  from  the 
devout  worshippers  that  they  might  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
outer  world  on  these  two  sides  roadward,  and  see,  during  prayer, 
how  It  went  with  the  wicked  without — ^whlle  there  was  nothing 
but  cows  and  buttercups  on  the  field  side.  And  then  there  was 
a  narrow  foot-bridge  to  traverse,  spanning  Bless  Allcot's  dyke; 
and  a  stile  to  negotiate,  and  the  pathway  round  the  meeting- 
house walls  was  so  narrow  that  only  courting  couples  could 
make  the  circuit  In  comfort.  And  even  then  it  took  them  a 
long  time,  and  there  was  nothing,  really,  to  see. 


SO  Fondle's  initiation  passed  without  Incident.  One  or 
two  human  heads  popped  up  into  sight  above  the  field- 
ward  window-sills,  and  down  again — so  quickly  that  they 
might  have  been  footballs,  except  that  they  were  Jarge  Bailey, 
Bar  Marritt,  and  some  other  absentees  from  the  Wesleyan 
gallery,  come  to  see  Fondle  receive  his  baptism  of  blood  and 
fire,  piously  hoping  it  might  be  hot  enough. 

The  accounts,  therefore,  disseminated  by  the  brief  spectators 
of  Fondie's  debut  through  the  chapel  windows  must  be  regarded 


F  O  N  D  I  E  13 

as  apocryphal.  Indeed,  we  may  conclude  that  Fondle  came 
through  the  ordeal  with  sufficient  credit,  for  the  wheelwright 
declared  at  the  dinner-table,  in  front  of  the  roast  beef  and 
Yorkshire  pudding: 

"Thoo's  not  worth  a  tinker's  damn.  I  could  'a  made  more 
noise  by  aif  wi'oot  thee.  There  thoo  sat  i'  pew  as  stiff  as  a 
lump  o'  cold  suet  while  thoo  seed  me  wark.  Was  thoo  ivver 
i'  a  sweat  ?  Nay,  that  thoo  wasn't.  Thy  shirt's  as  dry  as  kaf! 
(chaff)  noo,  I'll  awander  (warrant)." 

*T11  admit  she's  not  si  wet  as  you've  a  right  ti  expect, 
feythur,"  Fondie  responded  humbly,  "or  as  I'd  wish  her  ti  be. 
But  I  wadn't  say  she's  dry.    She's  damp  i'  a  place  or  two." 

"What  wi'?"  the  wheelwright  demanded.  "Not  wi'  fiddling, 
I  knaw  very  well.  Thoo  didn't  fiddle.  Thoo  nobbut  niggled 
bow  aif  an  inch  across  strings  as  though  thoo  was  cuttin'  thy 
meat.  An'  did  thoo  ivver  stamp  thy  feet  on  grund  when  thoo 
struck  at  fiddle?    Nay,  that  thoo  didn't.    Not  yance." 

This,  in  effect,  was  the  wheelwright's  way  of  saying  that 
Fondie's  devotional  exercises  were  acceptable  enough  to  be 
continued.  And,  indeed,  for  close  on  three  months  afterwards 
Fondie  went  with  his  father  twice  each  Sabbath  day  to  worship, 
and  the  two  worked  together  like  sawyers  for  the  musical  edifica- 
tion of  the  faithful.  It  is  true  that  Fondie's  fervor  never 
burned  with  the  wheelwright's  flame;  but  by  the  sagacious  In 
Whivvle  he  was  regarded  as  the  wheelwright's  proclaimed 
musical  successor,  who  would  some  day  sit  in  the  wheelwright's 
seat  when  the  wheelwright  should  be  mere  dust  and  memory. 
And  who  knows  but  this  might  have  been  so  had  not  the  spirit 
of  restlessness  and  change  permeated  the  little  chapel,  and  sent 
Its  worshippers  In  pursuit  of  other  idols.  For  there  grew  up  a 
generation  that  knew  not  Joseph,  and  wearied  of  the  simple 
service  of  its  fathers,  and  the  sound  of  the  fiddle,  and  coveted 
after  harmoniums  In  Its  heart. 

The  history  Is  a  long  one  and  a  bitter,  and  its  versions  vary. 
But  It  is  unquestionable  that  the  wheelwright  was  the  last  man 


14  FONDIE 

in  Whlwle  to  whose  ears  the  breath  of  impending  change  dared 
commit  its  whisper,  and  even  then  not  through  the  lips  of  his 
fellow-worshippers — that  were  sealed  over  the  secret  as  close  as 
any  tomb — but  through  the  casual  mouth  of  the  Sproutgreen 
pig-jobber,  who  drove  into  the  wheelwright's  yard  one  morning 
for  a  repair  to  his  spring-cart,  and  accosted  him : 

*'So  thoo's  gettin'  a  harmonium  at  thy  place  o*  warship  an* 
all,  Joe,  same  as  rest." 

It  is  not  always  regarded,  in  our  part  of  the  country,  as  a 
sign  of  strength  to  answer  questions  as  soon  as  they  are  asked, 
or  to  espouse  a  topic  too  readily.  Such  verbal  promptitude  is 
held  rather  to  Indicate  the  weakness  of  the  babbler  or  tale- 
bearer, ever  eager  after  new  wonders. 

So,  when  the  Sproutgreen  pig-jobber  said,  "Thoo's  gettin'  a 
harmonium  at  thy  place  o'  warship,  Joe,  same  as  rest!"  the 
wheelwright  made  no  answer,  save  to  look  at  the  newcomer 
as  though  he  thought  very  little  of  him  at  all  times,  and  less 
than  usual  this  morning,  and  wiped  his  brow  with  his  cap,  and 
did  a  number  of  extraneous  things  before  asking  his  client 
abruptly: 

"What's  thoo  want?" 

To  which  the  pig-jobber,  delaying  his  reply  in  turn  whilst  he 
sucked  the  flame  of  a  match  Into  his  pipe-bowl,  said: 

"Look  at  cart  back.    Thoo'll  see." 

"I'se  ower  mich  wark  ti  look  at  onnything,"  the  wheelwright 
returned.  "I  can't  be  bothered  wl'  her.  Look  at  cart  for 
thysen." 

"Why,  I  ev  looked  at  her,"  the  pig-jobber  replied,  still  puffing 
at  his  pipe,  with  his  eyes  a-squint  upon  the  bowl,  "or  I  'shouldn't 
'a  brought  her,  Joe?" 

"Thoo  comes  just  when  thoo  sees  I'se  throng,"  the  wheel- 
wright complained. 

"Thoo's  nivver  owt  else,"  said  the  pig-jobber  complacently. 
"Thoo  stands  ti  be  makin'  thy  fortune,  nobbut  thoo's  ha!f  as 
mich  wark  as  thoo  reckons  thoo  has.     Noo  then!     Get  at 


FONDIE  IS 

her,  Joe.  Dean't  let's  waste  time.  I'se  a  lang  day  i*  front 
o'  me." 

And  the  job  was  nearly  finished  before  the  wheelwright 
reverted  to  the  pig-jobber's  opening  words  and  asked: 

"Who  telt  thee  aboot  harmonium?" 

The  pig-jobber  mentioned  a  public-house  or  two,  at  which 
the  wheelwright  commented  sagely:  "There's  nobody  knaws 
syke  a  deal  as  them  that  knaws  nowt." 

But  when  the  pig-jobber  drove  out  of  the  yard  with  white 
wood  showing  at  the  tailboard  of  his  cart,  and  new  hinges,  the 
wheelwright  dusted  one  palm  significantly  against  another  as 
he  was  wont  to  do  after  cuffing  a  head,  and  that  same  dinner 
hour  his  legs  bore  him  rapidly  round  Whiwle,  and  his  brow  was 
formidable  with  dark  and  imprisoned  thoughts  as  is  the  studded 
door  of  a  gaol. 

"I'll  knaw  rights  on  it!"  he  muttered  as  he  walked,  and 
when  his  step  was  heard  upon  the  cobbles  behind  Bless  AUcot's 
kitchen  yard,  and  Bless  Allcot's  wife  caught  sight  of  his  beard 
through  the  window-pane  in  helping  her  husband  to  potatoes, 
and  said: 

".  .  .  Why!  it's  Joe  Bassiemoor.  What's  bringin*  him  this 
time  o'  day,  I  wonder?" 

.  .  .  One  of  the  versions  says  that  Bless  Allcot  turned  the 
color  of  skimmed  milk,  and  put  his  hands  hurriedly  together 
as  though  in  the  act  of  saying  grace. 

The  wheelwright  wasted  no  time  and  few  words.  The 
kitchen  door  was  open,  and  he  laid  one  hand  on  each  jamb,  and 
he  put  his  head  in  like  a  hawk,  without  ceremony  or  good-day, 
and  asked:  "What's  all  this  aboot,  Bless  Allcot?" 

Bless  Allcot,  according  to  the  same  version,  feigned  to  be 
putting  some  potato,  beef,  cabbage,  and  mustard  into  his  mouth 
— that  were  all  piled  up  in  preparation,  along  six  inches  of 
knife-blade,  and  peppered  to  boot — but  the  version  declares 
he  never  meant  to  eat  them  in  the  wheelwright's  presence,  for 
the  food  would  have  choked  him. 


i6  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"What!  Is  It  thoo,  Joe?"  he  said  feebly.  "We've  just 
gotten  agate  [started]  wi'  dinner." 

"Thoo  sees  it's  me,"  the  wheelwright  pronounced  in  a  voice 
of  denunciation.  "An'  thoo  knaws  it's  me,  for  thoo  heard  me 
comin',  an'  thy  missus  looked  oot  o'  winder  and  telt  thee  it  was 
me.  So  thoo's  n'  occasion  ti  ask,  *Is  it  thee,  Joe?"  Who  else 
is  it  like  ti  be?'* 

Bless  Allcot,  making  a  spasmodic  feint  at  his  mouth  with  the 
knife-blade,  and  lowering  the  latter  to  the  plate  again,  said 
uneasily,  "Why  .  .  ,  thoo's  welcome,  Joe." 

"I  dean't  care  whether  I'se  welcome  or  I  isn't  welcome,"  the 
wheelwright  declared,  "an'  thoo  wadn't  tek  trouble  ti  tell  me 
I  was  welcome  nobbut  thoo  knawed  very  well  I  wasn't — I  want 
ti  knaw  what's  this  aboot  harmonium.  That's  what  I  want  ti 
knaw." 

At  the  mention  of  "harmonium"  all  the  intelligence  fell 
away  from  Bless  Allcot's  visage  in  a  piece,  as  if  it  had  been 
stucco  from  an  old  wall,  leaving  nothing  but  void  and  blank- 
ness  behind.  He  repeated  the  word  with  lips  that  seemed  able 
to  derive  no  comprehension  from  it. 

"Harmonium,  Joe?"  said  he. 

"Aye!  Harmonium!"  the  wheelwright  cried,  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  as  though  it  gave  the  word  a  contemptuous  cuff 
in  ejecting  it.  "Thoo  heard  me  fair  enough.  Thoo  knaws  all 
about  her.  Thoo  knaws  as  much  about  her  as  onny  man  i' 
Whiwle." 

"Why  .  .  ."  Bless  Allcott  admitted  discreetly,  "there's  been 
a  bit  o'  talk  about  her,  yan  time  or  another,  so  far  as  that  gans, 
Joe." 

"Then  thoo's  i'  favor  on  her?"  the  w^heelwright  demanded 
darkly. 

"Nay!  Thoo  shouldn't  snap  words  oot  o'  my  mouth,  Joe," 
Bless  Allcot  protested.  "It's  not  what  I  favors  nor  what  thoo 
favors.  It's  what  Lord  favors,  wi'  His  help  an'  His  guidance. 
We're  in  His  'ands,  Joe.     Thoo  can't  deny  it.     Thoo's  said 


FONDIE  17 

same  thysen,  many  a  time,  i'  Lord's  Ooose,  an'  folks  has  said 
Amen  tiv  it." 

"Who's  at  bottom  on  it?'*  asked  the  wheelwright  luridly. 
"Is  it  thoo,  Bless  Allcot?" 

Bless  Allcot  blinked  his  ej^es  at  the  aspersion  as  if  it  had 
been  an  onion.  When  he  prayed  in  public  he  had  only  to 
squeeze  his  red  eyelids  and  water  came.  He  could  draw  water 
from  this  source  when  every  pump  in  Whivvle  was  dry,  and  it 
was  a  current  saying  in  the  district,  if  a  pump  went  off:  "Thoo 
mun  get  Bless  Allcot  ti  pray  ower  her.  Thoo'll  'a  water  enough 
then." 

"Thoo's  a  hard  man,  Joe,"  he  said,  though  in  tones  sufficiently 
attenuated  to  add  no  further  fuel  to  the  wheelwright's  wrath. 
"Thoo  won't  believe  what's  telt  thee.  Thoo  won't  see  Lord's 
finger  i'  onnything." 

"Lord's  finger!"  cried  the  wheelwright.  "WTien  thoo's  a 
lass  larnin'  music  at  five  shillin'  a  quarter,  an'  a  harmonium  an* 
all  stood  i*  yon  parlor  aback  o'  yon  door — nobbut  thoo'd  open 
it!"  To  Bless  Allcot's  wife  the  wheelwright  said,  "Hod  thy 
noise,  woman.  Nobody  speaks  ti  thee!" — and  she  held  it  so 
well  that  he  had  only  to  tell  her  once  again  during  the  whole 
interview. 

But  the  interview  was  barren,  and — for  the  wheelwright — as 
profitless  as  the  parabolic  fig-tree.  Bless  Allcot  yielded  no 
fruits  of  anger  or  contrition.  His  wet  eyes  and  Christian  meek- 
ness seemed  proof  against  all  injury  or  assault.  He  said, 
"Thoo's  been  unjust,  Joe,  but  a  Christian  mun  forgive.  Thoo's 
said  some  hard  things.  Thoo'll  think  better  o'  thysen,  mebbe, 
after  thoo's  said  thy  prayers  a  time  or  two." 

And  the  wheelwright,  striding  forth  among  the  Brethren, 
robed  in  righteous  anger  and  injured  dignity,  the  wind  of  his 
motion  spreading  the  tresses  of  his  beard  and  mantling  him  to 
the  knees  in  its  Mosaic  splendor,  slowly  awoke  to  the  futility 
of  unresisted  wrath.  The  Brethren  were  as  water,  that  opens 
to  the  arm  cleaving  it,  and  closes  again  relentlessly  behind. 


x8  FONDIE 

The  harmonium  became  a  mockery;  the  echo  of  an  echo,  that, 
pursued  to  its  source,  yields  no  response. 

But  the  wheelwright  warred  in  a  lost  cause,  and  knew  it. 
In  those  days  it  was  said  his  countenance  grew  terrible  to  look 
on,  and  few  looked  on  it — among  the  Brethren — but  were 
obliged. 

And  all  the  versions  agree  that  the  matter  was  submitted 
to  arbitration  by  prayer,  and  all  but  one  say  that  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  descended  upon  the  Brethren,  but  that  one  asks 
(not  irrelevantly)  what  else  the  Spirit  was  likely  to  do  when 
the  harmonium  stood  in  Bless  Allcot's  parlor  all  polished  up 
in  readiness  for  delivery. 

And  Bless  Allcot  and  Albert  Brammer  together  took  her  by 
night  over  the  foot-bridge  into  the  chapel  as  soon  as  it  was  dusk 
enough  to  rob  recognition  of  most  of  her  terrors.  Jack  Bennett 
from  Sproutgreen  and  the  miller's  second  lass  were  seated  on 
the  handrail  at  the  time,  and  had  to  get  off  the  bridge  to  let 
them  go  by. 

So  Bless  Allcot*s  old  harmonium  with  three  keys  lacking — 
though  Bless  Allcot  said  they  were  no  hin-detament  to  the 
sound  of  her,  and  he  knew  very  well  they  were  all  three  some- 
where inside,  having  heard  them  rattle  when  they  crossed  the 
bridge — passed  to  the  community  for  the  same  sum  that  Bless 
Allcot  had  given  for  her  fifteen  months  before. 

Three  pounds  fifteen  was  the  price  at  which  the  instrument 
changed  hands,  and  Bless  Allcot  said  nobbut  it  had  been  for 
the  Lord's  arm,  and  the  voice  of  the  Spirit  bidding  him  what 
to  do,  like,  he  wouldn't  have  let  her  go  under  double  that 
amount;  she  had  improved  that  mich  sin'  his  daughter  began  ti 
play  her. 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  Brethren  had  called  to  inspect  her  pre- 
viously, at  Bless  Allcot's  house,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  walking 
with  stiff  necks  because  of  their  collars,  and  going  the  longest 
way  round  through  fear  of  meeting  the  wheelwright,  and  lined 
up  along  the  parlor  wall  as  if  the  occasion  had  been  an  inquest, 


F  O  N  D  I  E  19 

holding  their  hats  in  their  hands,  and  coughing  into  each  other's 
ears  with  their  sideways  Sunday  coughs.  And  Bless  AUcot's 
<iaughter  seated  herself  to  the  harmonium  with  a  face  like  the 
burning  of  Moscow,  and  played  them  Sankey  and  Moody's 
hymns — or  the  three  in  particular  she  knew  the  best,  having 
practiced  for  the  occasion — and  Bless  stood  with  his  arm  on 
the  harmonium  facing  the  Brethren  and  interpreting  to  them 
by  the  juiciness  of  his  eyes  the  beatitude  of  the  music,  that 
might  have  been  acute  lumbago  by  the  way  he  bore  it,  saying: 

"Aye,  aye!  Amen!  Noo,  wi  ye!  What  did  I  tell  ye?  Was 
I  speakin'  truth?    Ev  I  said  a  word  i'  her  praise  ower  many?" 

And  the  Brethren,  abashed  before  that  syrupy  and  beatific 
eye,  and  overu'helmed  with  the  burden  of  responsibility  laid 
upon  their  Sunday  shoulders,  lowered  their  own  eyes  before 
Bless  Allcot's  fervor  as  though  they  had  been  unworthy  to 
exchange  looks  with  such  a  heaven-irradiated  orb,  and  mur- 
mured: 

"She's  gotten  a  gran  tone." 

And  Bless  said: 

"There's  not  another  i'  this  part  of  the  world  wi'  syke  a 
tone !" — which  was  true,  and  just  as  well. 

And  when  they  had  laid  their  hands  upon  her,  decorously 
and  reverently  touching  her  person  at  the  request  of  Bless 
AUcot,  who  said : 

"Tek  hold  on  her  an*  examine  her  for  yoursens.  She'll  bide 
it.  Fse  not  frightened.  Lord  sees  inti  oor  hearts.  There's 
nowt  underhand  aboot  business.  I'se  not  pressing  ye  ti  buy. 
Ye  can  tek  her  or  leave  her.  Lass  dizzn't  want  me  ti  let  her  go. 
But  if  ye  dean't  tek  her  this  time  it'll  be  last  chance  ye'U  get." 

When  these  things  had  been  done,  and  these  words  uttered, 
Nunk  besought  the  vendor  to  ask  a  blessing  on  her,  which  the 
vendor  did. 

With  the  three  pounds  fifteen  received  from  the  Brethren 
his  daughter  paid  the  first  deposit  on  a  brand-new  harmonium 
that  she  had  already  provisionally  selected  in  Hunmouth  on 


20  F  O  N  D  I  E 

the  three  years'  or  deferred  payment  system.  It  had  eight 
stops,  including  two  dummies,  and  a  vox  huniandj  or  inhuman 
voice,  so  called  because  by  means  of  it  the  harmonium  could  be 
made  to  imitate  the  bleating  of  a  goat,  and  was  the  nearest 
thing  in  sounds  to  the  sight  of  Bless  Allcot's  eyes  when  he 
wrung  liquid  piety  out  of  them. 

And  Bless  Allcot's  daughter  was  to  receive  two  pounds  a  year 
for  conducting  the  musical  part  of  the  service  every  Sabbath. 
This  portion  of  the  arrangement  came  with  a  shock  upon  the 
Brethren,  who  were  base  enough  to  pretend  that  they  had  not 
understood  it,  but  Bless  invoked  the  Lord's  arm  once  more,  and 
the  Spirit,  and  the  Brethren  were  hopelessly  overpowered. 

There  were  two  grand  special  services  to  commemorate  the 
installation  of  the  harmonium,  and  the  cobbler  from  Sprout- 
green  walked  all  the  way  to  Whivvle  in  a  parson's  hat  and  a 
white  tie,  to  tell  folk  what  a  sinful  life  he  had  led  in  his 
younger  days,  and  how,  but  for  the  Living  Word,  he  might 
probably  have  been  wearing  a  gray  coat  and  colored  kerchief  to 
this  day,  and  been  even  as  the  other  sinners  whom  he  had  met 
this  morning  biq^cling  along  the  road  to  Hell.  And  Bless  All- 
cot's eyes  were  as  wet  as  cut  lemons,  and  he  thanked  the  Lord 
for  having  spared  him  to  see  this  day — though  it  can  have  been 
little  he  saw  of  it  with  his  eyes  in  such  a  fluid  and  obstructed 
condition — and  he  shook  hands  with  everything  that  looked 
like  a  hand  as  the  congregation  dispersed,  and  thanked  the  wor- 
shippers for  coming,  and  said  this  was  a  glorious  day  for  the 
Lord,  and  his  heart  rejoiced  to  see  them.  And  at  both  services 
he  prayed  in  the  key  of  G  flat  minor  for  absent  Brethren  .  .  . 
for  absent  Brethren  .  .  .  whom  Sickness  ...  or  Other  Causes 
kept  away  from  the  Lord's  House,  when  bidden  to  take  part  in 
this  Bridal  Feast.  Beseeching  that  their  hearts  might  be 
softened,  and  they  might  be  led  to  see  the  Lord's  Arm,  and 
sinners  might  be  brought  to  repentance,  and  light  poured  on 
them  that  sat  in  Darkness  and  the  shadow  of  their  own  Wrath. 


F  O  N  D  I  E 


VII 


21 


THUS  was  the  beginning  of  the  wheelwright's  breach  with 
a  body  of  which  he  had  constituted  the  chief  limb  or 
main  member  during  upwards  of  thirty  years,  and  that 
was  how  Fondie  came  ultimately  to  abandon  his  fiddle  for  the 
practice  of  the  harmonium — though  there  were  other  influences 
beside.  Everybody  knows  that  Blanche  was  one  of  them.  The 
breach  between  Joe  Bassiemoor  and  the  Brethren,  though 
patched,  was  never  healed.  For  a  fortnight  or  longer  he  kept 
up  his  belligerent  attitude,  maintaining  the  doctrine  that  Sal- 
vation was  free  to  all,  and  could  be  had  as  abundantly  in  one's 
own  kitchen  as  in  any  so-called  place  of  worship  smelling  of 
pinewood  and  cushions — a  most  excellent  doctrine,  well  worth 
the  maintenance. 

But  it  was  clear  to  see  through  his  obstinaq^  and  asservera- 
tions  the  w^eakening  of  the  wheelwright's  anger;  the  burning 
out  of  his  wrath.  For  religion,  it  seems,  cannot  be  transacted 
in  the  heart  alone,  and  he  who  prays  in  private  is  like  him  who 
hoards  his  money  in  a  secret  place,  that — though  he  may  have 
the  covert  assurance  of  it — brings  him  no  interest.  All  the 
wheelwright's  faith,  with  its  accrued  interest  of  respectability, 
was  banked  w^ith  the  Primitives.  To  forsake  this  body — ^with- 
out transferring  his  spiritual  account  to  some  other  well-estab- 
lished company — seemed  like  forfeiting  the  religious  savings  of 
years,  and  the  Sunday  came  v^hen  the  wheelwright  donned  his 
Sunday  raiment,  and  ate  his  breakfast  as  if  his  molar  teeth  had 
been  grindstones,  and  w^hat  they  worked  upon,  the  wicked ;  and 
after  he  had  eaten,  and  given  thanks  in  a  voice  that  might  have 
been  mistaken  at  a  distance  for  a  cabman's  valediction,  he 
walked  to  the  kitchen  door  and  stood  there  awhile,  and  thence 
back  to  the  kitchen,  and  so  on,  for  a  time,  as  though  some  rest- 
less fire  were  burning  in  him,  until  at  last  he  said  to  Fondle: 

"Get  thoo  thy  hat  an'  come  wi'  me." 


22  FONDIE 

"TI  chapel,  Joe?"  his  wife  asked  curiously. 

"An'  why  not?"  the  wheelwright  asked  explosively.  "Why 
shouldn't  I  gan  ti  chapel?  Diz  chapel  belong  Bless  Allcot — 
an'  Lord  belong  him  an'  all?  I've  as  mich  right  there  as  him, 
or  onnybody.  Dost  think  I'se  feared  o'  Bless  Allcot?  Nay, 
it  shan't  be  said  o'  Joe  Bassiemoor  he  was  feared  o'  onnybody. 
There's  not  yan  on  *em  durst  look  me  fair  i'  face — they'd  slip 
roond  onny  corner  fost.  I'll  gan  ti  chapel  an'  shame  'em.  I'll 
shaw  'em  which  side  Lx)rd's  on." 

And  he  went,  casting  the  chapel  into  such  a  hush  as  if  he 
had  been  his  own  corpse,  so  that  the  praying  went  as  dry  as 
a  duck-pond  in  August;  and  his  presence  seemed  to  invest  the 
meeting-house  with  such  a  gloom  as  falls  over  it  in  the  evening 
when  a  storm  is  brew^ing,  and  all  goes  dark  as  if  the  chapel  had 
fainted,  and  they  have  to  apply  lighted  tapers  to  the  lamps. 
Bless  Allcot's  daughter  let  the  wind  out  of  the  harmonium  time 
after  time,  and  lost  all  her  faculty  for  counting  how  many  verses 
there  were  in  each  hj^mn,  and  whether  the  Amen  went  after 
each,  or  at  the  end  of  all.  Even  Bless  Allcot's  juices  appeared 
under  constraint,  and  he  sat  for  the  most  part  with  his  head 
lowered  as  if  something  heavy  had  fallen  on  it.  It  is  true  he 
put  out  his  hand  as  the  wheelwright  passed  him  at  the  chapel 
door,  but  he  held  it  very  low  down  and  almost  immediately 
made  use  of  it  to  cough  into,  for  the  wheelwright  took  no  more 
notice  of  the  despised  member  than  if  it  had  been  a  blind  man's 
mug.  He  walked  home  with  Fondie  in  a  triumphant  silence, 
dispensing  looks  neither  to  right  nor  left,  and  said  over  his  own 
roast  beef: 

"Aye.  It's  been  a  judgment  on  'em.  Lord's  visited  'em. 
They're  rightly  sarved.  They'll  knaw  what  it  is  noo,  wi'  Bless 
Allcot  on  their  backs." 

Slowly,  in  fact,  the  wheelwright  surrendered  to  his  years,  and 
though  he  clung  to  the  externals  of  authority,  and  scowled  at 
customers  with  concentrated  animosity,  it  was  known  his  reign 
was  over.     He  still  constituted  the  nominal  head  of  his  house- 


d 


F  O  N  D  I  E  33 

hold  and  his  Uttered  yard,  with  the  right  of  threat  to  lay  his 
darkling  hand  about  Fondie's  ears  (though  he  never  did,  save 
to  the  extent  of  a  dramatic  gesture  retaining  much  of  his  ancient 
fire  and  force),  but  beneath  the  outward  comedy  of  parental 
rule  and  filial  submission  Fondie  gradually  came  to  occupy  the 
place  of  practical  authority  in  the  wheelwright's  yard.  And  this 
by  no  process  of  deliberate  usurpation,  but  by  the  irresistible 
force  of  public  opinion.  For  though  Whiwle  still  continued  to 
call  him  "Fondie,"  and  pronounced  him  a  fool  for  submitting 
to  the  old  man's  petulance  and  putting  up  with  the  old  man's 
ways,  it  recognized  him  both  tacitly  and  overtly  as  the  main- 
spring of  the  business,  saying:  "Nobbut  it  was  for  Fondie,  and 
man  mud  gie  up  when  he  liked."  So  while  the  wheelwright's 
figure  and  sweeping  white  beard  dominated  nominally  the  yard 
and  workshop,  Whiwle  craned  its  neck  cautiously  to  see  if 
Fondie  were  in  sight,  before  committing  itself  beneath  the  sign- 
board; and  instructed  its  emissaries  not  infrequently  "Dean't 
leave  it  wi*  aud  man.  Nobbut  there's  only  him  i'  yard,  bring 
job  back." 

And  girls  brought  their  bicycles  to  the  yard  end,  and  made 
whistling  noises  to  attract  Fondie's  notice,  and  beckoned  him 
to  the  roadway — for  to  take  the  bicycle  right  into  the  wheel- 
wright's yard  for  repair  looked  too  obviously  like  expecting  to 
pay  for  it — and  would  ask  Fondie,  Will  thoo  just  this,  and 
Will  thoo  just  that,  Fondie? 

And  Fondie,  because  he  was  Fondie,  would  answer:  "Why! 
I  can  nobbut  try.  And  onnyways,  I'll  do  my  best — if  you  can 
trust  her  wi'  me." 

And  Fondie's  best  seldom  failed.  Even  Fondie's  worst — 
except  that  he  hadn't  one,  or  at  least  in  any  region  apart,  per- 
haps, from  fiddling — ^was  no  bad  standard  of  excellence.  Nor 
did  Fondie's  father  go  very  wide  of  the  truth  when  he  declared 
contemptuously : 

"Aye!  Thoo  warks  better  by  half  when  thoo  dizzn't  get 
paid  for  it.    Thoo's  as  fond  as  a  cuddy." 


24  F  O  N  D  I  E 


VIII 


WE  have  gone  back  a  few  steps  in  history  to  get  a  good 
beginning,  as  Dod  does  when  he  blows  out  his  cheeks 
and  runs  backwards  a  hundred  paces  with  intent  to 
jump  the  sunk  fence  between  his  father's  orchard  and  the  pad- 
dock (though  he  does  not  always  jump  it  then,  but  stops  be- 
cause his  stocking  is  coming  down,  or  because  it  is  too  hot  for 
jumping:  saying  he  can  jump  it  if  he  likes,  and  mebbe  he  will 
jump  it  tomorrow  if  he  thinks  on). 

Fondie  was  but  fourteen — or  little  turned — at  the  time  of  the 
wheelwright's  historic  breach  with  the  Body.  He  was  barely 
two  years  older  when  he  designed  and  executed  the  great  sign- 
board. Before  he  was  seventeen  he  had  painted  the  public- 
house  (unaided)  two  coats,  and  doctored  up  the  tuberculous 
White  Cow  so  skillfully  that  the  farrier  from  Sproutgreen  could 
not  have  put  her  into  better  fettle.  Everybody  that  stopped 
outside  the  door  said  to  the  landlord:  "Thoo's  gotten  a  new 
coo  then,  Meggit!"  and  Meggit  had  to  tell  everybody:  "Nay 
I  en't.  Yon's  aud  coo  wi'  a  new  coat.  Fondie  fittled  her." 
To  which  the  Sproutgreen  pig-jobber  retorted:  "Aye,  that  she 
is,  an'  he's  put  'er  wi'  calf  an'  all,  Meggit" — a  jest  that  served 
the  bar  and  all  Whivvle  for  a  fortnight  after,  and  brought  the 
modest  blush  to  Fondie's  cheek  when  the  district  visited  him. 
And  because  he  was  Fondie  he  never  went  once  into  the  public 
bar  all  the  while  he  was  painting  her,  and  when  it  came  to  the 
bar  window  he  never  even  glanced  inside,  but  kept  his  eyes 
glued  to  the  brush  and  woodwork,  as  if  his  very  soul  depended 
on  it,  responding  to  the  derisive  voices  that  hailed  him  from 
within  without  transferring  his  gaze  to  the  speakers.  When 
Jerry  Colman  did  the  painting  the  time  before  he  could  not  hear 
a  voice  or  hiccough  but  he  was  down  his  ladder  in  a  moment, 
and  spent  so  much  of  his  time  within  doors  that  Whivvle  used 
to  ask  him,  "Which  side  diz  thoo  reckon  ti  be  painting,  Jerry  ? 


FONDIE  2S 

Inside,  or  out?"  And  even  the  landlord,  though  loath  to  dis- 
parage a  good  customer — and  a  singer  to  boot — had  to  admit, 
when  the  job  was  finished,  **I  think  it  can't  'a  been  outside  by 
looks  on  it."  Nevertheless,  such  is  the  inconsistency  of  human 
nature,  he  was  little  better  suited  with  Fondie's  incorruptible 
industry  and  abstinence,  which — had  they  emanated  from  any- 
body but  Fondie — ^might  have  been  prejudicial  to  his  house  and 
calling.  "Aye,  he  can  paint,"  the  landlord  admitted  grudg- 
ingly. "Neabody  says  he  can't.  But  what  good  is  he?  He's 
nea  good  ti  onnybody.  It  would  be  a  poor  world  wi  nowt 
but  syke  chaps  as  him  in  it." 

And  before  he  was  seventeen  Fondie  had  painted  some 
hundreds  of  palings — going  down  on  one  knee  before  each,  like  a 
suitor  proposing  marriage  in  Queen  Victoria's  time — and  dozens 
of  water-tubs,  and  had  papered  sitting-rooms,  and  staircases, 
with  moss-roses  and  forget-me-nots;  and  had  whitewashed 
ceilings,  and  measured  people  for  coffins,  and  made  two  of  the 
latter  by  himself  (all  alone  in  the  workshop,  long  after  it  was 
dark  outside,  and  only  a  lamp  burning,  and  a  good  twenty 
yards  between  the  workshop  and  the  kitchen  door,  and  that 
closed,  and  girls  saying  they  w^ondered  how  he  dared,  and 
Fondie  saying  he'd  never  thought  about  it,  and  folks  exclaiming: 
**Why!  he's  that  fond.  Onnybody  wi'  sense  would  a  thought 
aboot  it.  He's  over  fond  ti  be  afeared  of  owt"),  and  had 
reverently  polished  his  mortuary  handiwork  until  it  shone  like 
heaven,  and  made  even  the  relatives  realize  more  good  qualities 
in  the  departed  than  they  had  ever  done  during  life,  to  see  him 
thus  transformed;  and  Fondie  had  walked  to  the  churchyard 
as  a  bearer,  dressed  in  black  to  the  knuckles,  and  w^earing  a 
four-inch  crape  band  round  his  Sunday  hat — that  would  not  be 
removed,  according  to  the  usage  of  the  district,  until  after  the 
first  Sunday  following  the  funeral. 

And  (still  before  he  was  seventeen)  Fondle  had  repaired  all 
sorts  of  conceivable  things,  and  had  had  his  fingers  trapped  no 
ends  of  times  in  all  sorts  of  conceivable  machinery,  and  had 


36  F  O  N  D  I  E 

pondered  over  those  vital  processes  of  mechanism  that  are  hid 
from  the  sight  and  knowledge  and  desires  of  the  commonalty, 
and  had  conceived  wondrous  new  relations  of  working  parts, 
thinking  them  out  in  his  bed  at  night  when  sane  and  sensible 
folk  would  have  been  sleeping;  and  had  taken  the  fruits  of  this 
activity  to  his  father  in  the  morning,  and  said:  "I'se  jealous 
you'll  think  nowt  iv  idea,  feythur,  but  I  thought  I  mud  venture 
tiv  appeal  ti  your  wisdom.  I  knaw  you  wean't  misdirect  me. 
Would  ye  say,  noo  .  .  ."  and  the  wheelwright  would  answer 
without  ceremony:  "I'll  say  nowt.     Hod  thy  noise." 

Nevertheless,  actuated  by  the  resistless  creative  powder  within 
him,  Fondie  had  made  successively  a  clock,  mostly  of  wood, 
with  some  biscuit-box  and  sardine-tin  in  her;  and  a  model  reaper. 
The  wooden  clock  went  for  twelve  hours — though  she  took 
less  than  five  minutes  to  burn  up;  the  model  reaper  worked 
her  knives,  and  probably — on  a  larger  scale — might  have  been 
capable  of  taking  somebody's  finger  of?,  but  Fondie's  father  was 
perhaps  well  within  his  rights  when  he  exclaimed : 

"What!  Thoo's  gotten  tway  [two]  clocks  i'  oose,  an'  a 
watch  i'  thy  w-eskit  pocket,  and  choch  clock  ti  gan  by,  an'  thoo 
can  fin'  nowt  better  ti  do  but  mek  syke  a  thing  as  yon,  when 
folk  can  buy  a  wakkener  [alarm]  for  three  an'  six!  Thoo's  as 
soft  as  slap.*'  And  if  Fondie  had  implemented  a  threshing 
machine  with  his  own  hands,  to  thresh  corn,  and  blow  chaff  all 
over  the  foldyard,  and  hum  like  a  top,  and  do  the  work  that 
any  other  threshing  machine  did  at  thirty  shillings  a  day,  they 
would  merely  have  accepted  it  as  conclusive  evidence  of  Fondie's 
fondness,  and  said: 

"Lawks!  She  gans  all  reet,  hooiwer!  Yon  fellow's  a  fond 
'un,  ye  may  depend." 

And  if  Fondie  had  played  the  fiddle  like  an  angel — not  that 
he  did,  or  offered  the  least  promise  of  doing  so — they  would 
have  charged  the  accomplishment  just  as  certainly  to  the  debit 
side  of  his  ledger,  and  winked  at  each  other  familiarly  when  he 
tucked  the  fiddle  under  his  chin.     For  if  men  only  laughed  at 


i 


F  O  N  D  I  E  27 

the  things  they  understand,  or  that  their  knowledge  entitled 
them  to  laugh  at,  there  would  be  an  end  of  all  laughter.  But 
(still  before  he  was  seventeen)  Fondie  transferred  his  allegiance 
from  the  fiddle  proscribed  by  the  paternal  intolerance,  to  the 
not  less  paternally  detested  harmonium.  He  did  not  take  this 
extreme  course,  to  be  sure,  without  submitting  it  filially  to  his 
father's  approval,  and  he  confessed  afterwards  to  having  done 
so  with  trepidation,  but  the  wheelwright's  growing  impatience 
saved  him,  for  Fondie  had  barely  uttered  the  word  "Feythur" 
in  its  supplicative  sense,  when  the  wheelwright  cried:  "Hod 
thy  noise.  Do  what  thoo  likes.  Dean't  trouble  me!" — and 
Fondie's  mother  said,  when  he  appealed  to  her:  "Thoo  knaws 
what  thy  feythur  is.  Thoo  shouldn't  vex  him.  Gan  thy  ways, 
lad,  an'  say  nowt  ni  more  tiv  him." 

With  which  maternal  sanction  Fondie^  after  long  hesitation, 
went  his  ways  and  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  the  sacred 
keyed  instrument. 


IX 


TO  have  hinted  at  such  a  monstrous  impiety  as  a  har- 
monium in  the  house  after  the  harmonium's  treachery 
towards  his  parent  would  have  drawn  thunderbolts  out 
of  the  wheelwright's  beard,  and  Fondie  had  to  work  under  all 
the  disadvantages  of  secrecy  and  gloom.  But  he  had  looked 
into  the  mysteries  of  many  an  instrument  blown  by  breath 
and  bellows,  and  his  service  to  the  district  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  He  decided  there  was  some  analogy  between  the  finger- 
ing of  a  harmonium  and  a  concertina,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
tattered  instruction  book  that  a  Whiwle  young  lady  lent  him 
in  return  for  the  mending  of  four  punctures  in  her  back  tire, 
and  a  careful  attention  to  the  movements  of  Miss  Allcot's  wrists 
and  fingers  during  divine  worship,  Fondie  arrived  at  a  concep- 
tion of  the  fundamental  principles  underlying  harmonium  play- 
3 


28  F  O  N  D  I  E 

ing.  Being  nothing  if  not  thorough,  he  took  the  opportunity 
of  a  broken  sashcord  in  one  of  the  chapel  windows  to  measure 
the  harmonium  keyboard  with  a  clasp-rule,  and  had  already 
drawn  an  elaborate  survey-map  of  the  instrument  in  his  pocket- 
book,  when  he  perceived  the  act  in  its  most  despicable  light  as 
treachery  towards  his  father,  whereupon  he  tore  out  the  offend- 
ing page,  and  scattered  its  shameful  pieces  to  the  wind  over 
the  foot-bridge  coming  home — which  shows  how  fond  he  was. 
But  he  obtained  permission  to  run  his  clasp-rule  over  a  Whiv- 
vle  early-century  piano,  on  condition  that  he  scratched  nothing, 
and  made — according  to  the  measurements  taken — a  wonderful 
fingerboard  of  close  on  three  octaves  on  which  to  practice  and 
habituate  his  fingers  to  their  new  duties.  Each  white  key 
bore  its  own  letter,  painted  on  it  in  a  legible  capital,  and  all 
the  white  keys  worked  on  a  spring,  but  not  the  black,  because, 
as  Fondie  said:  "I'se  jealous  I  shan't  need  them  yet,  of  a 
while." 

The  springs  were  very  strong;  each  would  have  been  capable 
of  working  a  rat-trap,  Fondie's  contention  being:  "Nobbut  I 
can  yance  larn  ti  finger  these,  I  ought  ti  be  able  ti  finger  onny." 

On  this  ingenious  instrument  Fondie  practiced  five-finger 
exercises  and  psalm  tunes  in  silence,  and  achieved  such  a  theo- 
retic victory  over  music's  mechanical  side  that  when  his  aunt, 
not  to  be  outdone  by  Bless  Allcot's  daughter,  bid  for  and  bought 
the  harmonium  at  the  Vicar  of  Riswick's  sale,  to  serve  as  a  Bible 
and  pelargonium  stand  in  her  front  parlor,  Fondie  was  able 
to  identify  most  of  the  keys  by  name,  saying:  "Here's  C, 
aunt,*'  and  "Yon's  F,  unless  I'se  very  much  mistaken,"  and 
*'I  wouldn't  like  ti  say  this  isn't  G,  but  color's  different  fro' 
what  I'se  used  ti."  And  he  was  able  to  play  the  opening  chords 
of  several  hymns  upon  it,  which  threw  his  aunt  into  a  pious 
frame  of  mind,  so  that  she  folded  her  hands  as  firmly  as  if  the 
collecting-plate  were  coming  round  to  her  pew,  and  made  her 
mouth  the  size  of  a  threepenny-bit,  which  is  an  appropriate  size 
and  shape  for  piety. 


FONDIE  29 

"If  anything  happens  me,"  she  told  Fondle,  "harmonium'!! 
be  yours." 

Fondie  said  he  hoped  she  wouldn't  be  his  "of  many  a  long 
year." 

"I'se  not  si  young  as  I  was,"  his  aunt  confessed,  reconciled 
by  this  state  of  exaltation  to  thoughts  of  demise ;  present  happi- 
ness being  a  powerful  digestive  of  prospective  sorrows.  "It's 
not  i'  nature  o'  things  I  can  live  si  much  longer.  Lord  may  be 
sendin'  for  me  at  onny  time  noo;  I'se  nobbut  a  year  younger 
than  Joe." 

Fondie  hoped,  with  the  drawn  face  which  was  always  at  his 
service  on  such  occasions,  that  the  Lord  might  manage  to  get 
on  without  her  "of  a  long  piece''  yet. 

"House  will  be  yours  an'  all,"  his  aunt  went  on,  drawn  by 
the  harmonium  and  the  hymns  and  the  resultant  piety  into  the 
well-worn  testamentary  track  once  more,  that  she  had  trodden — 
and  would  continue  to  tread — many  a  time  with  Fondie.  Fon- 
die was  pledged  to  make  her  cofEn — that  should  be  a  smoothed 
oak  coffin  with  the  heaviest  brass  fittings  and  an  embossed  name- 
plate.  At  one  time  this  sacred  commission  had  been  lodged  with 
Fondie's  father,  but  with  the  whitening  of  the  wheelwright's 
beard,  and  the  deepening  of  his  gloom,  she  had  transferred  the 
obligation  to  Fondie's  more  sympathetic  and  accommodating 
shoulders.  And  Fondie  knew  the  exact  spot  in  the  green 
churchyard  where  his  aunt  desired  to  sleep  w^hen  her  earthly 
work  was  done.  It  changed  from  time  to  time,  as  other 
Whiwle  sleepers  forestalled  her,  encroaching  on  the  space  de- 
sired, and  bringing  neighbors  to  the  cherished  vicinity  in  whose 
company  she  could  not  comfortably  lie.  The  wheelwright's 
sister,  not  unlike  the  wheelwright's  self,  was  an  individual  of 
strong  prejudices — so  strong,  indeed,  that  they  survived  the 
very  thoughts  of  defunction,  and  had  driven  her  disquietedly 
all  around  the  churchyard,  from  one  contaminated  quarter  after 
another,  in  quest  of  her  ultimate  sleeping-place.  She  could  not 
rest  easy  in  her  coffin,  she  said,  to  think  that  she  should  be  laid 


30  FONDIE 

next  door  to  Sarah  This,  or  John  That,  and  the  glorious  Re- 
public of  Christian  Souls,  reinforced  by  the  whole  host  of 
Saints  and  Martyrs,  failed  to  subdue  this  prejudice.  It  ex- 
tended even  to  her  choice  of  tombstones.  She  could  not  bide 
to  think  she  should  be  put  under  a  three-step  cross  and  curb 
now  that  Mrs.  Marston  had  got  one;  nor  would  she  have  the 
text  on  her  tomb  and  funeral  card  that  had  been  spoiled  by 
Elizabeth  Reed. 

All  of  which  changes  in  her  testamentary  desires  were  noti- 
fied to  Fondie's  sympathetic  ear. 

For  Fondie's  aunt  was  not  among  Fondie's  detractors,  and 
had  Fondie  gone  to  practice  the  harmonium  In  her  parlor  four 
times  a  week  in  place  of  the  customary  twice,  he  would  have 
been  welcome — so  long  as  he  scrubbed  his  boots  with  the  same 
care,  and  put  back  the  oilcloth  and  the  antimacassar  and  three 
wool  mats,  and  the  big  Bible — gilt  clasp  outward — and  the  vase 
of  dried  grasses,  and  the  two  jangling  lusters  upon  the  har- 
monium when  he  had  finished,  and  taken  back  to  the  kitchen  the 
dust-sheet  his  aunt's  punctilious  forethought  had  spread  over  the 
carpet  for  him  to  tread  on.  As  to  the  fingerboard  with  the 
spring  keys,  It  disappeared  ohe  evening  after  Fondle  had  been 
prevailed  on  to  bring  it  down  to  the  w^orkshop  for  the  Inspection 
of  a  visitor.  Fondie  sought  it  everywhere,  and  asked  everj^body 
except  his  father  If  they  had  seen  It;  but  nobody  had,  and  he 
never  appealed  to  the  wheelwright,  and  the  wheelwright  never 
volunteered  any  word  to  him,  for  all  he  once  saw  Fondle  turn- 
ing over  shavings  with  his  foot,  and  moving  planes,  and  spoke- 
shaves,  and  peering  about  the  bench  and  lathes,  asking  petulantly 
at  last : 

"What's  thoo  lost?" 

To  which  Fondle  tactfully  replied: 

*Tse  not  sure  I'se  lost  onnything,  feythur." 

"Get  on  wi'  thy  wark,  then,"  the  wheelwright  ordered  him, 
"till  thoo's  made  up  thy  mind  whether  thoo  has  or  thoo  hasn't." 

To  have  made  a  second  fingerboard,  even  on  better  principles. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  31 

with  the  experience  gained  from  the  first,  would  have  savored 
to  Fondie  of  flat  rebellion  towards  Providence  and  his  parent, 
and  so  he  submitted  to  the  dispensation,  though  more  than  once 
he  deplored  (to  himself)  his  loss,  saying: 

"I  could  a  practiced  hymns  i'  my  bedroom  wi'oot  disturbing 
nobod)^" 

Fondie's  love  of  music  was  proverbial.  He  himself  acknowl- 
edged the  quality  as  a  sort  of  inverted  demerit,  saying  he  knew 
he  was  fonder  of  it  than  syke  as  him  should  be,  though  he  mud 
feel  thankful  it  hadn't  been  Drink.  Two  hours  were  as  naught 
to  Fondie  when  he  seated  himself  at  his  aun,t's  harmonium,  and 
he  always  bestowed  extra  and  reverent  attention  upon  the  paint- 
ing of  any  window  of  any  room  that  had  a  piano  in  it. 

In  Whiwle  it  used  to  be  said  of  him  that  he  could  bide  music 
as  long  as  a  sow  could  bide  scratching,  5'et  there  are  those  who 
contend  that  this  passion  alone  did  not  account  for  his  sudden 
attachment  to  the  harmonium,  and  that  from  the  first  he  was 
actuated  by  deeper  motives  than  mere  music.  Fondie,  indeed, 
scarcely  denied  it,  although  Fondie's  acceptance  of  an  impeach- 
ment by  no  means  proved  its  truth,  for  his  humility  was  prepared 
to  acknowledge  nearly  anything  affirmed  against  his  merit  and 
if  one  had  accused  him  openly  of  being  a  thief,  Fondie  would 
have  confessed: 

"Why,  I  misdoot  I'se  not  mich  better.  There's  not  syke  a 
deal  o'  difference  betwixt  wanting  a  thing,  an'  tekking  it.  If 
I  en't  taen,  it's  mebbe  only  because  there  wasn't  enough  ti  tempt 
me.  What'U  tempt  van  man  wean't  tempt  another,  an'  before 
one  judges  anybody  for  what  he  diz  I  think  we  should  knaw 
what  was  pushin'  at  back  on  him  when  he  did  it." 

The  news  that  Fondie's  temptation  had  come  in  the  guise  of 
the  church  organ,  and  that  he  was  actually  to  play  the  service 
for  a  couple  of  Sundays,  caused  something  like  a  stir  in  Whiwle, 
But  it  made  Fondie's  musical  aspirations  plain  to  the  meanest 
intelligence.  The  wise  said:  "Why!  What  did  ye  expect? 
What  did  we  tell  ye?" — not  that  they  ever  did.    "That's  what 


32  F  O  N  D  I  E 

he's  been  after  all  time."  Some  demanded  what  the  wheel- 
wright was  thinking  of  to  let  him.  "Joe  reckons  ti  be  Primiti'. 
You  maj^  depend  he'll  'a  summut  tl  sa5\"  But  all  Joe  Bassie- 
moor  said,  when  Fondie  preferred  the  customary  formula  for 
parental  sanction  was:  "Hod  thy  fond  tongue.  Do  what  thoo 
wants  tl  do,  an'  dean't  bother  me" — w^hich  was  as  good  a  sanc- 
tion as.  the  most  filial-minded  of  sons  might  wish  for.  And 
besides,  the  wheelwright  was  now  visibly  assuming  the  attributes 
of  old  age;  his  authority,  that  once  active  and  vehement  thing, 
was  relapsed  into  a  passive  and  contemptuous  state  that  scorned 
altercation  and  deigned  not  to  parley. 

Some  insinuated  that  the  wheelwright  was  secretly  gratified 
with  his  son's  ecclesiastical  distinction,  and  that  his  open  scorn 
was  but  the  cunning  mantle  to  a  hypocritical  pride,  for  after 
Fondie  played  the  American  organ  it  was  noticed  that  Joe 
Bassiemoor  relapsed  into  a  systematic  Sabbath  Oncer,  and  his 
beard  was  to  be  looked  for  at  evening  worship  only  in  the  event 
of  his  having  been  absent  from  the  morning.  Bless  Allcot 
said :  "An'  it's  him  that  called  me  a  chochman  wi'  his  own  lips. 
Who's  chochman  noo?  But  Joe  Bassiemoor  was  nivver  a  true 
Believer."  And  his  eyes  grew  verj'  wet  with  Christian  charity 
and  forgiveness,  but  there  were  equally  those  who  said  both 
he  and  his  daughter  were  glad  of  Fondle's  defection  from  the 
Body,  for  Bless  Allcot's  daughter  was  heard  to  complain  that 
Fondie  did  nothing  but  stare  at  her  when  she  played  the  hymns, 
and  how  could  anybody  play  properly,  and  remember  to  pedal 
at  the  same  time,  with  somebody  else's  eye  fixed  on  her  back. 
If  It  had  been  any  other  than  Fondie  she  would  have  suspected 
him  of  honorable  Intentions,  and  bought,  maybe,  some  fresh 
ribbon  for  her  hat,  but  It  was  too  well  recognized  In  Whiwle 
that  Fondie  did  not  know  what  lasses  were  for,  and  all  Miss 
Allcot  accused  him  of  was  jealousy. 

And  though  Bless  Allcot  prayed  In  chapel  for  Infidels  and 
Unbelievers  and  Lost  Sheep  on  the  day  that  Fondle  took  the 
first  service  at  church,   and  all  knew  that  his  prayer  meant 


F  O  N  D  I  E  33 

Fondie  and  the  wheelwright,  there  were  those  among  his 
closest  enemies  who  said  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  both,  and 
the  week  afterwards  he  threw  out  his  first  hint  that  the  play- 
ing of  a  harmonium  and  the  blowing  of  her  an'  all,  twice  each 
Sunday  for  fifty-two  Sundays  in  the  year,  was  hard  work,  and 
took  a  deal  out  of  a  lass,  to  say  nothing  about  wear  and  tear  to 
skirts,  and  though  he  wasn't  complaining,  "the  Lord  seed  inti 
his  heart.  What  was  tvvo  pun?  Did  not  the  Lord  love  a 
cheerful  giver?  And  was  not  this  His  work,  and  had  He 
not  told  us  the  laborer  should  be  paid?"  So  the  salary  was 
reassessed  at  three  pounds,  and  little  enough  (said  Bless  All- 
cot).  "It  couldn't  very  well  be  onny  less.  But  we  mun  act 
Christian  an'  do  what  we  can  tl  help  Cause,  an'  bring  sinners 
ti  the  Lamb.  Lass  didn't  ask  for  nowt.  It's  nobbut  what 
you  gled  her  voluntary,  ye  knaw  very  well,  an'  If  It  hadn't 
been  a  sixpence  she'd  a  sarved  Lord  just  same,  and  as  willing.'* 


FOR  a  season  Fondle  figured  in  the  sight  of  Whivvie  as 
an  apostate,  and  even  Individuals  of  the  most  unrecog- 
nized spirituallt>%  whose  nexus  with  any  organized 
form  of  public  faith  was  of  the  slightest,  assumed  the  righteous 
indignation  of  Primitives  on  meeting  him  and  exclaimed: 

"Thoo's  a  nice  chap!" 

To  which  Fondle,  with  a  troubled  and  contrite  countenance, 
would  answer  humbly: 

"You  mean  choch  organ?" 

"Nay  I  don't!"  his  self-constituted  judge  would  retort.  "I 
mean  thoo  for  playin'  on  her.  Thoo  needn't  go  for  ti  blame 
orgln.     What's  thoo  got  ti  do  wi'  choch  ?" 

"Why,  I  misdoot  you'll  say  I'se  i'  some  ways  ti  blame," 
Fondle  acknowledged.  "But  I  seemed  as  though  I  couldn't 
do  nowt  ni  less.     They  asked  me." 


34  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"An  couldn't  thoo  a'  said  no?"  Whiwle  demanded  of  him 
sternly. 

"Why?"  said  Fondie.  "I  expect  you'll  say  I  ought  tiv 
a  done." 

But  he  confessed  that  he  did  not  care  "ower  a  deal"  for  the 
word  "no"  at  any  time,  and  especially  when  folk  was  i'  trouble — 
for  all  Bless  Allcot  declared  that  Hell  was  filled  with  folk  that 
couldn't  say  no  when  they  should  have  done.  "No,"  indeed, 
was  the  last  answer  Fondie  could  make  to  anybody,  and  there 
are  no  historic  proofs  that  he  ever  did  when  anything  was 
demanded  of  his  kindness — least  of  all  to  Blanche. 

For  It  was  Blanche's  own  self  that  came  swinging  Into  the 
yard  to  seek  him,  and  flashed  her  big  white  teeth  imperturbably 
before  the  wheelwright's  tow-colored  beard,  and  asked  as  bold 
as  brass  for  Fondie,  and — since  the  wheelwright  did  not  Imme- 
diately vouchsafe  an  answer  to  her  question — found  Fondie  for 
herself  in  the  workshop,  w^here  she  took  hold  of  him  by  the  coat 
sleeve  as  Intimately  as  If  he  had  been  a  door-handle — Fondie 
saying  that  it  was  a  warm  afternoon,  to  account  for  the  color 
of  his  face,  which  (by  the  feel  of  It)  he  knew  to  be  crimson; 
though  this  to  Blanche  presented  no  extraordinary  feature, 
since  It  was  the  color  she  usually  knew  him  by — and  told  him 
without  ceremony: 

"Fondie,  you've  got  to  play  the  organ  on  Sunday." 

And  Fondie  answered  in  a  voice  of  sudden  misgiving,  that 
gave  way  under  him  like  a  loose  stair-board : 

"Ye  wean't  mean  choch  organ.  Miss  Blanche?" 

Blanche  said,  "Of  course  she  did.  Fondie  must  play  it. 
He'd  have  to  play  It.     He'd  got  to  play  it." 

Fondie  explained,  with  Increasing  color  and  gravity,  he 
misdooted  somebody  had  glen  Miss  Blanche  a  wrong  idea  of 
his  ability,  and  he  wasn't  what  syke  as  her  w^ould  understand 
by  being  a  player — and  the  modesty  exuded  from  his  forehead 
in  globules,  and  his  collar  stuck  to  his  neck  through  anxiety  to 
convince  Miss  Blanche  how  unworthy  he  was,  but  Blanche  said 


F  O  N  D  I  E  3S 

Oh,  she  knew  all  about  that,  and  she  didn't  mind  a  bit  how 
badly  he  played.  It  would  be  good  enough  for  father,  anyw^ay. 
Miss  Bryce  (said  she)  was  ill.  (Silly  old  fool!)  And  father 
had  said  Blanche  must  play  the  organ  on  Sundays;  she'd  been 
learning  music  long  enough,  and  it  was  high  time  she  did 
something  with  it;  and  Blanche  was  sure  she  wouldn't,  and  if 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst  she  meant  to  be  ill  or  something 
on  Sunday,  and  stop  in  bed  all  day.  She  didn't  care.  She 
wasn't  frightened  of  him.  She  wasn't  going  to  make  a  fool 
of  herself  before  all  the  people,  not  for  father  or  anybody  else. 

But  Fondie  must  do  it.  Father  couldn't  say  anything  to 
him,  whatever  Fondie  did.  Father  couldn't  grumble  about  all 
the  money  for  his  music  being  wasted,  and  he'd  been  a  bitter 
disappointment  to  him  (as  he  would  say  to  Blanche),  and  she 
would  have  to  go  out  as  mother's  help  or  nursery  governess  if 
anything  happened  to  him.  He  was  always  plaguing  Blanche 
to  play  his  old  organ.  Blanche  didn't  want  to  play  his  old 
organ.  And  Blanche  didn't  mean  to  play  his  old  organ,  and 
so  he  knew. 

And  before  Fondie  could  stop  her  or  interpolate  any  sub- 
stantial objection,  she  was  saying:  "So  that's  all  right!" — 
though  it  wasn't.  "You've  promised,  Fondie!" — though  Fon- 
die never  had.  And  she  would  tell  father,  and  father  w^ould 
let  him  know  the  hymns.  And  Fondie  only  heard  himself 
murmuring  in  a  helpless  and  ineffectual  undertone  that  he 
misdooted  there'd  be  ower  many  flats  and  sharps  for  him 
to  manage,  to  which  Blanche  answered  with  cheerful  confidence 
that  he  was  to  manage  all  he  could,  and  leave  the  others  out, 
as  she  would  certainly  do.  She  didn't  mind  how  many  he 
left  out.  He  could  leave  them  all  out  for  what  she  cared. 
Nobody  would  notice.  Nor  did  Fondie's  murmured  objection 
that  he  misdooted  he  didn't  know  choch  service  disturb  her 
equanimity  to  any  greater  degree.  She  said  he  needn't  want 
to  know  It,  and  she  wished  she  didn't  know  It  either.  She 
was  sick  of  the  old  service.     All  Fondle  had  to  do  was  to  keep 


36  FONDIE 

his  ears  open  and  listen  out  for  the  Amens.  Not  that  it  mat- 
tered much  if  he  missed  them.  Miss  Bryce  often  did.  Blanche 
didn't  care. 

And  Fondie*s  other  objections,  each  weaker  than  the  last 
through  his  fatal  yearning  to  oblige,  were  dismissed  in  turn,  and 
he  said  he  would  do  his  best,  and  Blanche  said,  "All  right. 
Sunday  then.     Don't  you  go  and  forget." 

Had  Fondie  been  half  a  man  he  would  have  stipulated  for  a 
kiss  at  least — for  everybody  in  Whivvle  knew  he  could  have 
done  with  one,  but  he  wanted  it  too  badly  to  ask  for  it;  and 
he  hadn't  the  common  courage  to  take  it,  although  Blanche's 
big  white  teeth  were  displayed  within  six  inches  of  his  lips  at 
the  time.  If  he  had  been  half  a  man — for  there  was  nobody 
in  the  workshop  at  the  time,  except  the  two  of  them,  amid  the 
seductive  warm  scent  of  fresh  pine  shavings — Fondie  would 
have  taken  one  quick  peep  through  the  bull's-eye  window  glass 
to  make  sure  his  father's  beard  was  appropriately  turned,  and 
then  thrown  both  arms  round  Blanche's  neck  and  held  on. 
Blanche  would  only  have  whispered,  "Shut  up,  .  Fondie! 
Fondie,  you  silly  fool !"  and  Fondie  would  have  whispered, 
"Who's  a  fool?"  between  the  kisses,  and  Blanche  would  have 
answered,  "You,  you  fool!'*  struggling  with  just  sufficient 
discretion  to  give  his  kisses  the  requisite  raptorial  flavor,  so 
that  both — with  a  little  imagination — might  profess  to  believe 
the  kisses  were  snatched,  whilst  she  called  him  "You  great 
fool,  Fondie!"  lots  of  times,  and  smacked  his  kiss-flushed  cheeks 
provocatively  when  he  let  her  go,  as  though  daring  him  to 
do  it  again,  and  perhaps  (who  knows)  have  taken  him  by  the 
coat  lapel  and  stuck  one  of  the  flowers  she  generally  carried 
in  her  belt  for  the  purpose  into  Fondie's  buttonhole  and  said, 
"ril  never  speak  to  you  any  more,  Fondie!"  and  Fondie  would 
(or  might)  have  answered,  "Till  when?"  prompting  her,  "Till 
next  time?" — and  who  knows  how  differently  Whivvle  history 
might  have  had  to  be  written  and  depicted  on  Dod's  slate. 
For  that  one  kiss,  or  the  lack  of  it,  is  altering  lives  the  whole 


FONDIE  37 

world  over;  and  lips  too  reckless,  or  lips  too  shy,  can  change 
destinies  as  utterly  as  any  conqueror's  sword. 

But  Fondie  did  not  do  what  Fondie  might  have  done.  If  he 
had,  it  is  certain  he  would  not  have  been  Fondie.  All  he  did 
was  to  harp  on  his  own  unworthiness — as  though  Blanche 
cared  to  be  bothered  with  that ;  and  the  wish  that  he  had  more 
skill  to  justify  her  confidence  in  him — as  though  she  had  any; 
and  the  undertaking  to  do  his  best — as  though  Blanche  both- 
ered her  head  with  the  degrees  of  comparison.  He  asked 
Blanche  if  she  thought  she  could  Induce  her  father  to  pick  some 
easy  hymns  for  Sunday,  including  "Conquering  Kings"  and 
"Onward,  Christian  Soldiers" — and  Blanche  said  she  thought 
she  could — ^without  the  least  confidence  or  responsibility.  But 
she  couldn't,  for  her  father  was  too  grieved  with  her  to  con- 
sider anybody's  feelings  but  his  own,  and  said  he  was  bitterly 
disappointed  in  her,  and  he  had  no  comfort  in  his  children, 
and  all  the  other  things  that  Blanche  was  prepared  for,  so 
that  she  told  him:  "Oh,  shut  up.  You're  always  preaching. 
Fm  sick  of  the  old  music,"  and  he  had  to  reprove  her: 
"Blanche!  Is  that  the  way  to  speak  to  your  father?"  and 
Blanche  said,  "Yes,  it  is!" — though  with  her  lips  closed,  so 
that  he  should  not  hear  her.  And  Blanche  was  so  Injured 
in  turn  that  she  would  not  condescend  to  ask  him  to  set 
down  "Conquering  Kings"  and  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers'* 
or  any  other  hymns,  but  looked  the  numbers  up  when  he  was 
gone,  and  altered  his  figures — making  threes  into  eights,  and 
ones  into  sevens — just  to  pay  him  out;  including  a  hymn  for 
the  burial  of  those  at  sea,  and  another  in  four  sharps,  to  the 
end  that  Fondie  might  play  his  worst,  which  Fondie  duly  did. 


38  F  O  N  D  I  E 


XI 


AND  that  was  how  Fondle  came  to  be  a  churchman, 
for  Miss  Bryce  died  and  was  buried  in  foreign  parts — 
some  say  Lancashire — miles  and  miles  away  from  our 
history  and  the  placid  sound  of  Whivvle's  three  bells — to  whose 
complacent  music  she  had  so  often  buttoned  her  cotton  gloves 
on  a  Sunday. 

Fondle  played  the  Dead  March  for  her  with  his  wonted 
humility,  saying  it  was  the  best  he  could  do,  and  he  misdoubted 
a  poor  one,  and  he  wished  she  might  have  been  spared  another 
month  so  that  he  could  have  played  it  better.  It  Is  not  true 
he  was  glad  of  her  demise,  for  all  Bless  Allcot  said:  "Lord 
giveth  an'  Lord  tekketh  away.  Blessed  be  name  o'  the  Lord. 
Yon  chap's  gotten  his  wish  noo.  Will  that  content  him!" 
The  Vicar  himself  asked  Fondle  to  go  on  playing  just  for  a 
Sunday  or  two  more — until  Blanche  should  be  ready  to  take 
over  the  organ,  and  Fondle  said  if  the  Vicar  deemed  him 
worthy  he  would,  and  the  Sundays  went  by — ^\vhole  shoals 
of  them — and  Blanche  declared:  "He  needn't  think  Fm  go- 
ing to  take  his  fusty  old  organ  for  him,  for  I  aren't."  And 
she  didn't. 

Bless  Allcot  received  a  shock  one  morning  when  he  heard 
that  Fondle  had  been  appointed  church  organist  at  a  salary  of 
seven  pound  ten  a  year,  and  blowing  found.  "An'  Primiti's 
give  my  lass  three  pun!"  he  cried  in  his  indignation.  "An' 
she's  got  ti  blow  for  hersen.  How  div  they  expeck  onny  bless- 
ing ti  fall  on  syke  worship?" — but  the  report  was  unfounded, 
for  Fondle  got  nothing,  which  Bless  Allcot  averred  was  as 
much  as  he  was  worth.  The  rumor  of  this  handsome  salary 
reached  even  to  the  wheelwright's  ears  before  it  was  stopped, 
and  it  was  not  stopped  -even  them,  for  it  went  round  the 
parishes  begging  credence  like  a  tramp  after  work  in  haymaking 
time. 


FONDIE  39 

"What!"  cried  Whivvle  to  the  wheelwright.  "Thy  Fon- 
dle  gets  seven  pun  ten  for  playing  choch  orgin !  Aye,  it's  well 
ti  turn  chochman!" 

"More  fools  them,"  exclaimed  the  wheelwright,  "for  giein' 
on  it." 

But  the  first  thing  he  did  on  next  seeing  Fondie  was  to  tax 
him  angrily: 

"Then  thoo  gets  money  for  playing  choch  orgin?" 

And  when  Fondie  answered  meekly: 

"Nay,  father.  I'se  not  come  ti  that  yet,"  the  wheelwright 
retorted : 

"More  fool  thoo.  Thoo'd  let  onnybody  snatch  bread  oot  o* 
thy  mouth." 

At  first  Fondie  only  played  hjTnns  and  final  Amens  in  the  key 
of  G,  and  gave  the  Vicar  his  note  for  the  Lord's  Prayer  and 
Responses — Willim  Sidmouth  sitting  by  his  side,  ready  to  push 
his  elbow  and  say:  "Noo  then!  What's  thoo  waitin'  on?" 
or  pluck  his  wrist  and  say:  "Hod  on.  Vicar's  not  fit  yet,"  or 
nudge  him  violently  in  the  ribs  and  exclaim  in  a  penetrating 
whisper:  "Thoo  should  'a  gone  when  I  telt  thee!"  so  that 
worshippers  might  attribute  the  mistake  to  Fondie,  especially  in 
those  instances  where  Fondie  had  not  been  responsible  for  it. 

But  before  many  weeks  had  thus  slipped  by,  the  Vicar  decided 
that  they  ought  to  resume  the  singing  of  the  Venite;  and  after 
the  Venite  he  called  for  the  Te  Deum,  and  very  shortly  Fondie 
w^as  neck-deep  in  all  the  tribulations  of  a  church  organist — 
pointing  the  psalms  and  experiencing  the  pitfalls  of  the  double 
chant  and  odd  verse,  and  the  awful  feeling  that  accompanies 
the  falling  into  it,  as  if  one  had  slipped  off  the  belfry  ladder  in 
the  dark.  All  this  while  Blanche  was  reputed  to  be  taking 
special  notice  of  the  points  of  worship,  and  practicing  the  hymns 
and  chants  for  each  Sunday  as  though  herself,  and  not  Fondie, 
were  to  be  the  organist;  but  for  all  that  she  behaved  during 
divine  worship  no  differently  from  before,  and  displayed  her  big 
white  teeth  or  hid  them,  alternately,  in  the  pages  of  her  prayer- 


40  F  O  N  D  I  E 

book,  as  much  as  ever.  Only  her  father  for  one  moment  be- 
lieved that  Blanche  would  some  day  sit  seriously  in  the  place 
that  Fondie  occupied  and  take  the  service.  Certainly  no  one 
else  in  Whivvle  did. 

Whiwle  knew  at  once  when  Blanche  had  refused  to  practice, 
or  had  been  found  with  a  penny  novelette  spread  out  on  the 
pianoforte  desk  whilst  she  reputedly  played  the  Psalms,  for 
whenever  God's  blessings  failed  at  home  the  Vicar  put  on  his 
dusty  hat  with  the  grease-imprinted  thumb-marks  over  the 
flabby  brim,  and  went  in  quest  of  them  abroad,  saying  the  only 
comfort  he  had  was  in  his  parish,  visiting  the  sick,  and  calling 
upon  the  infirm  in  order  to  tell  them  that  we  all  have  our  secret 
sorrows,  and  that  sickness  is  not  everything,  and  that  the  Lord 
knows  all  our  hearts — in  which  he  was  at  one  with  Bless  All- 
cot,  albeit  less  juicy  about  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

Then  Blanche,  coming  upon  the  traces  of  her  father's  foot- 
steps later,  would  ask  Whivvle  with  her  undaunted  smile: 

"What's  he  been  saying?" 

And  if  Whivvle  happened  to  be  Fondie,  answering  her  ver}' 
tactfully  and  respectfully — for  Fondie  never  made  trouble 
between  party  and  party — "Why,  not  a  very  deal.  Miss 
Blanche.     He  spoke  aboot  psalms  and  hymns  for  Sunday." 

"...  And  about  me  too!"  Blanche  would  throw  in.  "I 
know.  You  can't  say  he  hasn't.  I  know  what  he's  been 
talking  about." 

A^nd  if  Fondie  ventured  to  suggest,  without  actually  saying 
so,  that  she  was,  maybe,  mistaken,  Blanche  would  come  close 
up  to  him  and  challenge  him  to  look  her  straight  in  the  eyes 
and  say  her  father  hadn't  m.entioned  her — as  though  Fondie 
dared  look  straight  into  her  eyes  at  any  time.  He  would  as 
soon  have  thought  of  looking  into  her  bedroom.  And  if  Fondie 
elected  to  reply  with  humility  that  he  wouldn't  like  to  deny 
anything  he  wasn't  very  sure  of,  Blanche  would  extend  her 
smile  with  triumphant  mockery,  telling  Fondie:  "No!  Be- 
cause you  dursn't.     You  know  it's  true.     He's  been  telling  you 


F  O  N  D  I  E  41 

all  about  it.  I  don't  care  if  he  has.  He  can  say  what  he 
likes.     I  aren't  going  to.     So  he  knows." 

And  she  would  apostrophize  her  father  as  a  Silly  Old  Fool — 
as  though  any  blessing  under  any  form  of  theologj'  whatsoever, 
whether  the  Vicar's,  or  Deacon  Smeddy's,  or  Bless  Allcot's,  or 
anybody  else's,  could  descend  where  such  undutiful  daughter- 
ship  or  flat  irreverence  was.  And  because  Fondie  never  en- 
couraged her  in  this  disobedience,  or  purchased  her  favor  at  the 
cost  of  his  filial  principles,  she  would  call  Fondie  a  Silly  Fool 
too,  and  say  she  didn't  care  for  anybody,  and  would  go  oiBE 
jauntily  swinging  her  skirts  to  right  and  left,  and  touching 
walls  and  palings  with  her  open  hands  as  she  passed  them,  and 
plucking  the  roadside  grasses  as  she  walked,  and  biting  them 
defiantly  with  her  resolute  teeth. 

And  if  the  WTiivvle  she  took  leave  of  happened  to  be  Fondie 
it  sighed  to  itself,  and  went  on  mutely  with  its  work,  and  never 
looked  over  its  shoulders  after  her  as  the  more  sensible  Whiwle 
would  have  done,  feeling  that  such  surreptitious  scrutiny  was 
not  respectful  to  the  Vicar's  daughter),  nor  winked  when  she 
turned  round  (for  the  same  ridiculous  reason) — ^which,  had  it 
only  whistled,  she  would  have  done  at  once. 


XII 

BLANCHE,  of  course,  was  the  Vicar's  daughter — as  in- 
deed her  open  disrespect  of  him  and  of  the  Church 
sufficiently  testified.  She  was  not,  however,  his  only 
child.  Providence  had  seen  fit  to  visit  the  Vicar  with  a  large 
family,  but  this  had  been  brought  off  in  two  separate  broods, 
like  blackbirds,  of  which  the  first  was  fledged  and  dispersed 
before  Blanche  cracked  the  shell  of  destiny  and  opened  her 
blue  eye  to  the  brightness  of  blue  heaven.  She  had  three 
grown-up  brothers  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  who  might 
as  well  have  been  strangers  for  all  she  saw  of  them,  or  all 


42  F  O  N  D  I  E 

they  meant  to  her ;  and  she  had  two  married  sisters  who  came 
to  Whlvvle  now  and  again — generally  after  confinement,  with 
pinched  cheeks  and  sharp  nose-ends — bringing  the  latest  baby 
to  sleep  in  Its  bassinet  on  the  vicarage  lawn,  and  cry  inconsol- 
ably  at  nights,  and  make  Blanche  say  it  was  sickening,  and 
she  would  be  glad  when  they  were  gone,  and  she  didn't  care. 

And  Blanche  had  a  sister  and  two  brothers  by  the  second 
brood.  The  sister  married  one  of  farmer  Broadley's  sons,  who 
failed  at  farming  within  the  twelvemonth,  and  went  off  to 
Canada  in  the  hope  that  farming  might  thrive  better  on 
Canadian  beer — ^which  perhaps  it  did,  but  no  one  knew  for 
certain,  and  in  such  cases  it  is  justifiable  to  think  the  worst, 
since  the  worst  makes  a  far  more  suitable  topic  for  conversation. 
Ultimately  Blanche's  sister  went  out  to  rejoin  her  husband  on 
very  insufficient  grounds,  saying  he  had  written  for  her — 
though  not  even  her  father  saw  the  letter.  She  paid  her  own 
passage  money  to  Canada — or  at  least  her  father  did,  for 
Farmer  Broadley  unequivocally  refused  to  contribute  the  least 
part  of  it,  demanding:  ^'What's  use  o'  throwing  good  money 
after  bad?  Let  lass  stop  where  she  is.  She's  as  well  at 
vicarage  as  onnywheers." 

Of  Blanche's  two  rem.ainlng  brothers,  one  was  in  an  account- 
ant's office  in  Hunmouth,  and  wore  cuffs  and  buttonholes,  and 
went  to  the  music-hall  twice  a  week,  and  came  home  by  the  last 
train  smelling  of  cigar — or  bicycled  all  the  way  when  the  roads 
were  reasonable,  and  the  office  work  kept  him  later  than  as  a 
rule.  This  brother's  name  was  Harold,  but  Whlvvle  generally 
spoke  of  him  as  Starchy — probably  because  of  his  cuffs.  The 
second  brother,  who  was  two  years  younger  than  Blanche,  went 
to  the  Whlvvle  school,  and  wore  corduroy  breeches,  and  broke 
windows  with  catapults,  and  used  bad  language,  and  was  nearly 
as  reckless  as  Blanche ;  albeit  he  was  not  a  bit  like  Blanche,  and 
nobody  else  was  a  bit  like  Blanche,  and  Blanche  w^as  the  only 
one  of  all  the  Vicar's  family  that  mattered,  or  was  worth  the 
while. 


FONDIE  43 

Strictly  speaking,  for  all  their  whiteness  and  regularity,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  Blanche's  teeth  were  too  big.  At  least  there 
is  no  doubt  they  would  have  been  too  big  for  anybody  but 
Blanche,  and  they  w^ere  even  too  big  for  Blanche  in  one  way, 
for  she  could  never  comfortably  close  her  lips  over  them,  and 
when  she  succeeded  in  doing  so  her  face  looked  altogether 
different,  and  not  a  bit  like  Blanche,  and  the  big  teeth  burst 
out  between  the  lips  next  moment  in  an  assertive  laughter  that 
would  not  be  denied;  big,  sound,  filbert-shaped  teeth  set  all 
round  her  mouth  in  a  superb  horseshoe;  every  tooth  as  sound 
as  a  bell,  and  as  white  as  bleached  ivory.  Only  one  other  set 
of  teeth  in  Whivvle  could  vie  with  them  for  regularity,  and 
that  belonged  to  Fondie's  aunt.  But  Fondie's  aunt's  teeth  were 
of  a  pale  porcelain  blue,  much  admired  in  company,  so  that  her 
mouth  had  almost  the  effectiveness  of  a  china  cabinet,  and  she 
took  as  much  care  of  the  teeth  inside  as  if  they  had  been  old 
Chelsea,  never  sneezing  without  her  handkerchief,  or — if  she 
knew  herself  to  be  sitting  on  it  and  time  pressing — with  her 
hand  held  firmly  over  them  to  reduce  the  risk  of  concussion, 
and  refusing  all  plum-cake  other  than  her  own  for  fear  the 
fruit  had  been  carelessly  stoned.  But  Fondie's  aunt  was  an 
elderly  maiden  lady  who  had  long  since  said  good-bye  to  the 
follies,  if  not  the  vanities,  of  life,  and  she  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  jeopardizing  her  teeth  in  one  of  Blanche's  reckless 
smiles  than  she  would  have  dreamed  of  wearing  her  Sunday 
gloves  to  go  a-shopping  on  a  weekday,  or  of  brewing  tea  in 
the  ornamental  Spathorpe  teapot  that  stood  in  the  front  parlor 
on  the  corner  bracket  that  Fondie's  skill  had  made  and  fixed 
for  her,  to  commemorate  a  day  trip  of  forty  years  before.  She 
disapproved  of  Blanche's  bold  and  shameless  teeth,  perpetually 
displayed,  and  of  Blanche's  laughing,  never  steadfast  eyes;  and 
of  Blanche's  profligate  golden  hair,  that  Blanche  shook  like  a 
horse's  mane,  when  loose,  and  of  Blanche's  cheap  Birmingham 
jewelry  with  which  Blanche  adorned  her  person  in  open  dis- 
regard of  her  father's  express  command;  brooches  and  rings 
4 


44  FONDIE 

composed  of  glass  rubies,  and  the  tinniest  cf  bangles — won, 
some  of  them,  from  the  Penny  Pull  at  Hunmouth  Fair  by  the 
skill  of  her  different  admirers — no  two  alike,  that  she  wore 
upon  her  wrists  on  glad  occasions.  And  what  she  wore  at 
any  time  did  not  constitute  more  than  the  quarter  of  what  she 
had  had,  or  the  half  of  what  her  father  had  impounded  or 
destroyed. 

Even  now  and  then,  generally  as  the  result  of  indignation 
engendered  by  Blanche's  lack  of  musical  diligence,  the  Vicar 
woke  up  out  of  his  vicarial  torpor  to  a  consciousness  of  her 
jewelry  and  the  responsibilities  of  parenthood,  and  pointed  an 
incensed  forefinger  at  the  tinny  baubles  on  Blanche's  wrists  and 
bosom,  demanding  how  she  had  come  by  them,  and  if  he  had 
not  expressly  forbidden  her  to  wear  such  things.  Periodically, 
if  his  wrath  had  been  very  hot,  and  Blanche  had  fed  it  with  the 
fuel  of  many  undaughterly  words,  he  would  commit  her 
brooches  and  her  bangles  and  her  glassy  turquoises  and  ruby 
rings  to  the  flame.  At  other  times,  his  anger  expended,  and 
his  energies  at  an  end,  he  merely  locked  them  up  in  his  untidy 
whatnot,  and  Blanche  got  them  out  again  next  day,  either  with 
the  Vicar's  key,  or  with  another  key  she  knew  of  that  fitted 
nearly  as  well ;  and  discreetly,  a  ring  or  a  bangle  at  a  time,  re- 
assembled the  proscribed  articles  about  her  person  in  readiness 
for  the  next  forfeiture.  Once  she  confided  a  whole  collection 
of  recovered  jewelry  to  Fondie's  embarrassed  hands  before 
Fondle  understood  rightly  what  they  were,  saying:  "Here. 
Take  hold  of  them,  Fondle,  and  keep  them  for  me  against  I 
ask  you  for  them,  so  I  can  tell  him  I  haren't  got  them,  and 
how  do  I  know  where  they  are !" 

And  Fondle  did  it,  though  he  misdooted  whether  he  was 
doing  right,  and  whether  the  Vicar  would  ever  repose  con- 
fidence in  him  again  if  he  got  to  know,  and  whether  Miss 
Blanche  wouldn't  be  better  advised  to  take  them  back  where 
they  came  from.  To  which  Blanche  retorted:  "Oh,  shut  up. 
I  shan't.     They're  mine,  not  his.     What  does  he  want  with 


J 


FONDIE  45 

them !    They're  no  business  of  his.    They  were  given  me,  not 
him.     Mind  that  ring,  Fondie,  the  ruby's  loose." 

Incidentally,  too,  she  called  Fondie  a  silly  fool,  which  Fondie 
would  have  been  the  last  to  deny,  or  to  object  to  from  Blanche's 
lips,  not  that  it  would  have  made  the  least  difference  if  he  had 
done  so.  Besides,  after  all,  it  was  better  to  be  called  a  silly 
fool  by  Blanche  than  many  a  better  name  by  many  better 
people. 


XIII 


EVERYBODY  in  Whiwle  knew  Blanche,  and  most  of 
them  called  her  by  name — except  Fondie,  whose  mod- 
esty never  so  much  as  dreamed  of  aspiring  to  such  a 
high  and  starlike  privilege,  but  addressed  her  "Miss"  and 
"Miss  Blanche"  under  all  circumstances,  as  naturally  as  he 
would  take  up  his  gravy  on  the  knife-blade,  without  for  a 
moment  contemplating  any  other  way. 

For  Blanche  was  Whiwle  born  and  bred,  and  had  practiced 
all  her  imperfections  in  the  sight  of  Whiwle  ever  since  she  had 
been  of  an  age  to  exhibit  any.  In  the  country  no  faults  are 
hid ;  they  can  be  no  more  concealed  than  acres,  and  each  mart 
knows  his  neighbors'  blemishes  as  well  as  he  knows  his  sheep, 
and  can  say  which  beasts  arc  whose  in  every  field.  One  might 
as  well  endeavor  to  reap  a  wheat  crop  or  keep  a  pig  without 
one's  neighbors'  knowledge  as  to  disguise  a  shortcoming.  Even 
before  she  had  entered  that  archipelago  of  feminine  difficulties 
called  the  teens,  Blanche  had  made  a  reputation  for  herself 
that  went  much  further  than  the  boundaries  of  her  father's 
parish.  Whiwle  could  distinguish  Blanche  half  a  mile  or 
more  away,  and  would  point  her  out  to  itself,  and  say  (on 
seeing  her)  :  "Yon's  Blanche,  look  ye.  What's  she  up  ti  noo?" 
— and  be  even  disappointed  in  her  if  she  were,  at  that  mo- 
ment, up  to  nothing  in  particular,  as  in  one  belying  a  reputa- 


46  FOND  IE 

tlon,  and  compensate  itself  with  the  expressed  conviction :  "Aye, 
but  she'll  be  up  ti  summut  before  long,  you  may  depend !" 

Staid  people  like  Fondie's  aunt  shook  their  heads  over  her  in 
disapproval,  and  asked  w^hat  her  father  was  thinking  of — as  if 
that  mattered  to  anybody — pointing  back  to  the  days  of  their 
own  girlhood  to  prove  how  things  had  altered  for  the  worse,  as 
their  mothers  and  their  grandmothers  in  turn  had  done  before 
them,  so  that  if  all  these  retrospective  Instances  are  to  be  be- 
lieved, and  could  be  traced  to  their  source,  it  seems  as  though 
one  must  arrive  ultimately  at  feminine  perfection,  or  very 
nearly,  by  walking  backward.  Fondie's  aunt — and  others  of 
her  species — said  they  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  do 
what  Blanche  did,  when  they  were  Blanche's  age.  My  word! 
They  wouldn't  have  dared.  And  Blanche — when  the  rumor 
of  these  sayings  reached  her,  by  way  of  many  mouths — only 
laughed  and  said,  "More  fool  them,"  which  saying,  when  it 
went  back  by  the  same  route  that  the  other  saying  had  come, 
caused  Fondie's  aunt,  and  her  persuasion,  to  comment:  "That's 
nice  talk  from  parson's  daughter.  My  wod !  Much  good  go- 
ing ti  choch  diz  her.  We  s'U  mebbe  see  who's  fool  an'  all, 
before  long." 

Whilst  Blanche's  mother  was  still  alive,  though  spending 
most  of  her  time  on  the  sofa,  with  the  blinds  drawn  after  mid- 
day, Blanche  went  to  school  in  Hunmouth,  or  was  supposed  to 
be  going  next  term  when  her  mother  could  spare  her,  and  was 
able  to  meet  with  a  suitable  servant.  But  as  suitable  servants 
were  bad  to  meet  with  in  Whivvle,  and  had  a  habit  of  running 
home  after  the  first  month,  and  saying  they  wouldn't  stand  it 
if  it  was  ever  so ;  and  as  Blanche's  mother  could  spare  her  less 
and  less,  having  to  be  helped  upstairs  and  down  again,  and 
sometimes  lay  in  bed  all  morning  if  there  were  nobody  to  assist 
her  out  of  it;  and  as  the  school  in  Hunmouth  was  an  obscure 
private  school  in  a  street  intersected  by  the  railway  line,  whose 
chief  educational  assets  were  a  large  unfurnished  and  uncarpeted 
room,  some  smoky  muslin  curtains,  a  wall  map,  a  high  piano 


J 


FONDIE  47 

whose  discolored  kej^,  when  struck,  elicited  a  far-ofif  attenuated 
response  like  a  note  sounded  in  eternity,  appearing  to  have  no 
establishable  relation  with  this  world ;  and  as  a  pair  of  scholas- 
tic glasses  that  the  principal  wore  on  the  bridge  of  her  nose  im- 
parted a  reed-like  and  authoritative  precision  to  her  voice  and 
enabled  her  to  refer  to  schoolbooks  with  a  profound  air  of 
understanding — Blanche's  education  was  both  intermittent  and 
meager.     Not  that  Blanche  minded  about  that. 

Had  the  school  been  a  public  school,  with  fees  payable  strictly 
in  advance,  and  no  rebates  for  absence — and  not  a  struggling 
private  school  that  offered  every  facility  short  of  education  to 
Its  constituents,  Blanche  might  have  gone  to  Hunmouth  regu- 
larly and  learned  a  great  deal  more.  Or  she  might  have 
stopped  altogether  at  home,  and  learned  a  great  deal  less.  But 
even  during  these  irregular  periods  of  attendance,  when  Blanche 
journeyed  up  to  Hunmouth  by  train  each  day,  taking  her  books, 
her  slippers,  and  her  lunch  with  her  in  a  satchel,  and  journeyed 
home  each  evening,  she  made  her  mark  along  the  line.  Hers 
was  the  most  noticeable  and  familiar  head  that  thrust  itself  out 
of  the  carriage  window  at  every  station,  and  there  was  not  a 
porter  or  any  official  short  of  a  statlonmaster  who  had  not  felt 
her  satchel  about  his  ears  at  one  time  or  other  as  the  train  went 
by.  For  if  any  dared  Blanche  to  do  a  thing  they  would  have 
feared  to  do  themselves,  Blanche  did  it  at  once,  with  the 
declaration:  **I  don't  care.  I  aren't  frightened  if  you  think 
I  am."  That  was  her  invariable  formula  for  undertakings 
demanding  courage,  and  it  Is  on  record  that  once  she  hit  every 
porter  over  the  head,  with  her  satchel,  in  succession,  between 
Whiwle  and  Hunmouth,  except  the  last,  who  caught  hold  of 
the  strap,  so  that  Blanche  had  rapidly  to  decide  between  coming 
out  upon  the  platform  feet  hindmost,  or  going  on  to  school 
without  her  books,  her  lunch,  and  her  slippers: — ^ultimately 
choosing  the  latter  alternative.  Not  that  she  had  any  special 
partiality  for  school,  but  that  she  loved  the  railway  ride.  At 
each  station  Blanche's  face  was  to  be  seen,  and  Blanche's  brown 


48  F  O  N  D  I  E 

canvas  satchel  waving  out  of  the  window,  and  Blanche's  voice 
was  to  be  heard  assuring  colleagues  in  other  compartments 
and  on  the  platform  that  there  was  room — for  all  a  score  of 
faces  tried  to  squeeze  out  of  the  window  above  her  own,  as  hot 
and  noisy  as  could  be,  ready  to  insult  officials  and  the  public 
at  large  once  the  train  was  in  motion.  I  wish  I  had  a  sovereign 
for  every  time  that  Blanche  rode  in  the  hat-rack  in  defiance  of 
the  notice  that  this  was  provided  for  light  luggage  only.  In 
those  days,  when  Blanche's  smile  was  young,  and  life  seemed  all 
compounded  of  sunlight  and  laughter  and  the  most  glorious 
disregard  of  law  and  venerated  things,  if  ever  you  traveled  on 
the  Merensea-Hunmouth  line  in  a  third-class  carriage  with  the 
rack-net  torn,  as  though  a  boot-heel  had  been  thrust  through 
it,  and  with  initials  scribbled  on  the  ceiling,  and  public  notices 
indecorously  amended — so  that  passengers  were  requested  by 
the  Company  to  spit  in  this  compartment,  and  to  pull  the 
alarm  co-rd,  and  do  equally"  reprehensible  things — and  the 
window  straps  had  been  removed — then  you  might  note  the 
number  of  the  compartment  with  complacency,  and  know  that 
Blanche  had  been  there,  and  that  Blanche's  feet  had  trodden 
all  over  the  cushions  on  which  you  sat,  and  Blanche's  bold  and 
shapely  legs  had  dangled  from  the  hat-rack,  and  Blanche's  hand 
had  probably  drawn  on  the  paintwork  the  fatty-degenerated 
heart  containing  the  particular  initials  that  had  a  special  sig- 
nificance for  Blanche  at  that  time. 

When  Blanche's  mother  died,  Blanche  left  the  Hunmouth 
school  for  another  term,  in  order  to  take  care  of  her  bereaved 
father  and  the  house  until  things  should  settle  down  after  their 
great  sorrow,  and  the  Vicar  should  find  the  suitable  servant 
they  had  been  looking  for  all  the  years  when  her  poor  mother 
was  alive.  But  as  the  next  term  drew  near  and  the  principal 
with  the  nose-constricted  voice  wrote  to  tell  Blanche's  father 
that  she  would  be  happy  to  reserve  a  place  for  his  daughter  in 
accordance  with  the  understanding,  the  Vicar  said,  "What 
understanding?"    and   instantly   became   bereaved    again,    and 


FONDIE  49 

spilled  more  gravy-spots  on  his  waistcoat — most  of  these  many 
spots  being  posterior  to  his  wife's  death — and  it  was  accordingly 
decided  that  Blanche  should  remain  at  home  for  another  term 
in  order  that  she  might  devote  more  time  to  her  music. 

Why  music,  of  all  exacting,  onerous,  unprofitable,  and  hope- 
less studies,  ever  came  to  be  associated  with  Blanche,  heaven 
only  knows.  For  Blanche  told  everybody  in  Whiwle  that  she 
hated  it,  and  wasn't  going  to  practice  for  anybody;  and  indeed 
only  played  the  pianoforte  under  compulsion,  with  the  loud 
pedal  down  and  the  most  resolute  wrists,  as  if  she  were  smack- 
ing a  baby.  To  rattle  through  a  couple  of  scales  and  the 
Gipsy  Rondo  before  dinner  seemed  to  Blanche  like  the  ful- 
fillment of  every  requirement  that  could  possibly  be  expected  of 
her.  But  musical  instruction  was  what  the  Vicar — for  reasons 
best  known  to  himself  and  the  Almighty — appeared  to  covet 
for  Blanche,  pointing  out  to  his  daughter  in  their  solemn 
conflicts  that  she  would  not  have  the  advantage  of  an  earthly 
father  forever,  and  that  at  any  time  the  Lord  decreed  things 
might  sadly  change,  and  that  it  behooved  Blanche  to  be  ready — 
as  though  m.usic  were  any  preparation  for  a  contingency  of  the 
kind.  Still,  musical  instruction  was  to  be  had  in  Hunmouth 
cheap,  and  in  its  most  pernicious  form,  and  it  suited  Blanche 
to  go  once  every  week  or  fortnight  for  her  pianoforte  lesson, 
carr>'ing  her  dog-eared  music  case,  with  a  spare  scented  hand- 
kerchief in  it,  and  to  look  all  round  the  Hunmouth  shops 
and  study  the  stockings  and  corsets  and  underwear,  and  the 
hats,  and  then  buy  something  as  like  these  admired  models  as 
she  could,  much  cheaper;  and  observe  the  latest  Hunmouth 
way  of  swinging  petticoats,  and  making  Masonic  eye-signs  with 
which  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  desirable  friends;  and  bring 
these  acquisitions  back  to  Whiwle  and  give  Whiwle  some- 
thing to  talk  about. 


so  F  O  N  D  I  E 


XIV 


FROM  the  very  first  Blanche  cared  infinitely  more  for 
boys  than  girls,  and  her  splendid  smile,  and  those  provo- 
cative blue  eyes  dancing  perpetually  like  stars  in  Decem- 
ber, and  the  reckless  shake  of  her  tawny  golden  hair,  brought 
her  an  endless  succession  of  admirers  from  every  quarter. 

When  any  strange  youth  cycled  hesitatingly  through  Whiwle, 
looking  inquiringly  from  side  to  side  like  a  strayed  calf,  you 
might  be  certain  he  was  come  to  seek  Blanche.  If  he  rode  twice 
through  the  High  Street,  cycling  no  faster,  and  looking  as  lost 
as  before,  you  might  be  sure  of  it.  And  if  he  were  to  be  seen 
later,  riding  briskly  away  with  a  tumbled  flower  in  his  button- 
hole, you  would  know  his  visit  had  not  been  in  vain.  Most 
likely  the  flower  would  be  the  one  Blanche  had  brought  back 
with  her  in  her  belt  from  the  last  music  lesson;  she  always 
carried  flowers  in  her  belt  ready  for  contingencies — weather- 
beaten  flowers,  as  a  rule,  looking  as  if  they  had  been  in  the  wars, 
and  had  seen  an  engagement  or  two:  old  campaigners  that  had 
been  given  by  somebody  to  somebody  else,  and  by  somebody 
else  in  turn  to  Blanche,  and  bestowed  by  Blanche  upon  the 
first  buttonhole  that  caught  her  fancy.  In  the  country,  where 
money  is  scarce,  flowers  form  a  great  currency  of  the  affections. 
Every  ploughboy,  wagoner,  and  third  year's  lad  carries  a 
nosegay  at  his  cycle-head  on  Sunday,  or  a  bloom  pinned  to  his 
coat  collar  for  the  lasses  to  beg  or  snatch  at,  and  Blanche  never 
saw  a  flower  in  anybody's  coat  but  it  became  hers,  either  by 
skill,  force,  or  supplication,  and  it  went  into  her  belt  w^here 
other  petalled  trophies  hung  already  in  various  stages  of  decline, 
like  scalps.  Not  a  few  flaunted  flowers  in  their  buttonholes 
merely  in  the  hope  of  being  asked  by  Blanche  for  them,  defending 
them  with  a  hand  against  the  importunities  of  all  other  sup- 
plicants, and  saying:  "Nay,  I  can't  spare  this  j^an.  I'll  bring 
ye  another,  some  day,  nobbut  I  can  think  on."    But  it  was  not 


F  O  N  D  I  E  SI 

often  that  a  flower  changed  hands  again,  however  battered  it 
might  be,  after  it  had  once  been  consecrated  in  the  bestowal 
by  Blanche,  and  to  this  day  there  must  be  hundreds  of  dried 
and  flattened  petals  between  the  pages  of  torn  French  exercise 
books,  and  Euclids,  and  Grammars,  and  pulpy  school  Testa- 
ments, looking  as  if — swung  at  the  end  of  a  three-foot  strap — 
they  had  come  in  contact  with  a  head  or  two  in  their  time;  all 
plucked  from  tokens  bequeathed  by  Blanche  and  put  away  in 
commemoration  of  the  giver.  Poppies  from  the  corn,  or  daisies 
from  the  stackyard,  toadmint  from  the  hedge,  wild  roses,  or  but- 
tercups, were  all  one  to  Blanche  with  her  finer  flowers,  and  she 
was  just  as  impartial  in  regard  to  her  sweethearts.  She  plucked 
them  from  every  quarter  of  her  father's  parish  and  beyond, 
without  ever  asking  whether  they  were  Churchgoers  or  Non- 
conformists. Hunmouth  Fair  generally  provided  her  with  a 
couple,  and  she  never  drove  to  Merensea  in  the  vicarage  tub 
called  a  buggy,  behind  the  vicarage  water-butt  called  by  courtesy 
a  pony,  along  with  her  brother  and  a  basket  of  sandwiches,  to 
spend  the  half-day,  but  that  some  new  face  was  sure  to  pass 
inquiringly  through  Whivvle  after  awhile,  or  a  picture  post 
card  in  some  unfamiliar  hand  came  to  the  vicarage  for  Blanche. 

All  the  district  anniversaries,  too,  Blanche  attended  for  the 
kissing.  The  Kissing  Ring  doubled  its  circumference  when  she 
joined  it,  and  shrank  to  half  its  size  when  Blanche  took  leave. 
And  since  she  could  not  have  indulged  in  a  tithe  of  these  delect- 
able practices  without  a  confidante  and  companion,  she  made  a 
friend  of  the  carrier's  daughter — who  sang  in  the  choir — and  the 
two  were  inseparable  on  all  occasions  when  the  company  of  each 
was  necessary  to  explain  the  actions  of  the  other,  so  that  Blanche 
could  tell  her  father  in  an  injured  voice — if  interrogated — that 
she  had  only  been  with  Ada;  and  Ada  could  tell  her  parents 
she  had  been  "setting  Blanche  a  bit  ways  home"  when  they 
said:     "What  time  diz  thoo  call  this?" 

Many  a  rendezvous  Blanche  gave  in  the  vestry,  where  her 
father's  faded  cassock  and  torn  surplice  hung,  and  it  was  rare 


52  F  O  N  D  I  E 

she  went  to  meet  anybody  she  particularly  cared  for — though 
there  seemed  alwa3^s  somebody  for  whom  she  cared  better — 
without  the  belfry  key  in  her  pocket,  so  that  if  it  were  too  hot 
to  go  anywhere  or  do  anything  she  could  suggest  the  belfry, 
where  one  might  be  cool  and  undisturbed  in  the  semi-darkness, 
amid  the  dust  and  cobwebs  and  jackdaws'  debris,  blown  on  by 
the  breezes  that  sighed  through  the  worm-eaten  louvers,  and 
look  down  upon  a  diminutive  Whiwle,  red-tiled  and  green- 
sheltered,  and  laugh  to  see  Fondie  bicycling  along  the  arid 
roadway  with  his  work-bass  on  his  back;  or  her  own  father, 
plodding  round  the  parish  with  a  last  week's  handkerchief  in 
his  hand,  ready  to  blow  his  nose  upon  it  in  despair  of  ever 
making  anything  of  his  daughter  Blanche. 

Blanche  loved  the  belfry  and  the  leads  above  it  better  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  church  put  together,  and  if  any  campanologist 
or  belfry-pilgrim  of  the  future  notes  with  astonishment  in  his 
pocket-book  the  profusion  of  B.B.'s  scribbled  on  the  rotten 
beams  and  cross-trees  and  on  the  bells  themselves,  in  conjunction 
with  other,  more  variable,  letters,  he  need  ascribe  these  to  no 
Founder,  Sponsor,  or  Prelate,  but  to  Blanche  herself,  and  sigh — 
if  he  has  any  humanity  left  in  him — to  think  he  has  been  born 
too  late  to  write  his  own  initials  in  a  heart  along  with  those  he 
looks  at,  after  being  led  up  the  dustiest  and  darkest  and  steepest 
ladders  behind  the  finest  pair  of  legs  in  all  Whiwle,  that  had 
no  fear  of  dust  or  dark  or  steepness,  nor  shirked  precedence,  but 
led  the  way  without  a  tremor,  saying  they  didn't  care,  and  they 
weren't  frightened. 

As  many  as  two  brand-new  admirers  together  would  turn  up 
at  the  church  on  a  Sunday  morning  during  worship,  and  press 
their  foreheads  against  the  diamond  window-panes,  indepen- 
dently of  each  other,  to  see  if  Blanche  really  were  the  Vicar's 
daughter  and  lived  where  she  said  she  did,  having  verified 
which  they  would  wait  for  her  at  the  church  gate  and  Blanche 
would  be  the  first  to  come  out  after  Benediction  and  walk  off 
nonchalantly   between   them,   while  Whiwle   asked,    "Who's 


F  O  N  D  I  E  53 

yon  ?"  Occasionally  they  took  a  seat  by  the  door,  where,  fortified 
by  Blanche's  assiduous  smile,  they  braved  the  rigors  of  a  service 
that  was  not  seldom  characterized  by  the  most  irreverent  and 
disgraceful  behavior. 

Blanche's  lawless  younger  brother  filled  his  mouth  with  gray 
peas  and  stimulated  worship  through  a  twelve-inch  blowpipe; 
or  shot  flies  and  ear-tips  with  paper  missiles  from  a  catapult 
affixed  to  the  thumb  and  finger  of  his  left  hand,  that  also  served 
as  a  musical  instrument,  and  could  be  made  to  take  part  in  the 
hymns — with  a  sound  resembling  an  extra  large-sized  blue- 
bottle after  undergoing  a  course  of  vocal  instruction.  On  a 
Monday  morning  in  the  height  of  the  fly-shooting  season  the 
church  floor  would  be  strewn  with  V-shaped  pellets,  as  though 
there  had  been  a  wedding,  and  it  was  rare  one  or  two  did  not 
shake  out  of  somebody's  bonnet  with  a  "Look  ye!  Did  ever!'* 
when  the  bonnet  came  to  be  brushed  and  wrapped  away  in  a 
kerchief  for  next  Sunday. 

And  Blanche's  elder  brother  folded  cigarettes  during  the 
Litany — manufacturing  a  sufficient  supply  to  last  him  all  day — 
and  pared  his  nails  for  the  coming  week,  and  read  the  "Con- 
fessions of  a  Lady's  Maid,"  and  the  "Revelations  of  an  Escaped 
Nun,"  and  "Secrets  of  Matrimony,'*  with  his  head  down  as  if 
he  had  a  stroke,  whilst  his  father  preached  from  Samuel 
and  Kings. 

XV 

AND  Blanche  had  no  more  sense  of  devotion  than  a  rose 
has  of  morals. 
The  fact  that  her  own  father  was  the  Vicar,  and 
that  all  her  life  she  had  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  at  close  quarters,  stood  sadly  in  the  way 
of  her  salvation.  She  knew  what  sort  of  imperfect  socks  and 
darned  pants  the  Thirtj^-nine  Articles  were  wearing  when  they 
said  "My  Brethren,"  and  where  the  datns  occurred;  and  how 


54  F  O  N  D  I  E 

many  handkerchiefs  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  had,  with  the 
approximate  quantity  available  for  active  service;  and  v^hat  a 
silly  fool  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  vi'ere,  or  w^as;  and  how 
unreasonably  wroth  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  would  be  tomor- 
row when  Blanche  slipped  away  on  the  quiet  with  the  pony 
and  trap  to  Merensea,  and  came  home  to  say  she  thought  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  knew  she  was  going.  Didn't  they  hear  her 
tell  them? 

That  rebellious  smile  of  hers,  with  its  curious  commixture  of 
friendship  and  defiance,  was  never  meant  for  the  service  of  any 
solemn-faced  and  sober-minded  deity.  The  Creator  that  con- 
ceived and  executed  Blanche,  and  equipped  her  with  that 
amphitheater  of  teeth  and  those  scintillating  eyes,  must  have 
been  a  tyro  at  his  trade  if  he  really  expected  sobriety  and  worship 
of  them;  or  else  a  jocund  God  of  Mirth,  who  loved  laughter 
and  human  happiness. 

Even  when  Blanche  sang  the  whole  verse  of  a  hymn  in  her 
solemnest  mood,  without  once  looking  round  or  shifting  her  blue 
eyes  from  the  book,  her  teeth  seemed  to  be  laughing  all  the 
while  at  irresistible  humor  in  the  text;  and  when  she  knelt 
to  pray  you  could  see  them — if  you  turned  your  head — gleaming 
through  her  spread  fingers  like  pearls,  though  much  whiter. 
The  only  time  they  seemed  to  close  during  the  service — and 
then  only  transitorily — was  when  Blanche  sucked  humbugs 
during  her  father's  sermon;  big  four-a-penny  humbugs  worthy 
of  her,  as  big  as  a  baby's  fist,  and  even  stickier,  that  she  trans- 
ferred from  one  cheek  to  another  with  obvious  difficulty.  For 
which  offense  her  father  had  rebuked  her  more  than  once  before 
the  face  of  the  whole  congregation,  and  would  not  continue  his 
preaching  until  Blanche  had  visibly  ejected  the  offending  sweet- 
meat into  her  handkerchief,  carefully  wrapping  it  up  for  further 
study  on  some  more  auspicious  occasion. 

Once,  indeed,  he  preached  a  sermon  on  the  text:  "My 
daughter  hath  a  devil,"  and  everybody  except  Fondie  said  it 
meant  Blanche.     Blanche  said  she  didn't  care  how  many  devils 


FOND  IE  55 

she  had,  and  if  what  Blanche  had  was  really  a  devil  after  all,  it 
is  a  pity  there  are  not  more  devils  in  these  days  to  go  round, 
for  they  improve  some  people  wonderfully,  and  Fondie  would 
have  been  all  the  better  for  one — as  Blanche  in  substance  told 
him.  The  Vicar  had  even  threatened  Blanche  that  unless  her 
behavior  improved  he  would  not  allow  her  in  church,  but 
Blanche  promptly  said:  "I  don't  care.  I'd  rather  stop  at 
home,"  and  the  Vicar  only  resorted  to  this  measure  in  emer- 
gency; nor  did  he  accept  Blanche's  challenge  to  rebuke  her 
elder  brother  for  making  cigarettes  and  reading  light  literature 
below  the  level  of  the  pew  ledge.  "He's  as  bad  as  me,"  Blanche 
told  her  father,  and  not  without  justice.  "But  you  never  say 
anything  to  him.  You  dursn't.  You're  frightened  of  him. 
You're  always  on  to  me." 

And  though  her  father  stamped  down  these  impious  words 
with  a  stentorian  "Blanche!  You  shan't  speak  to  me  like  that. 
I  won't  allow  it!"  Blanche  was  very  probably  right,  for  her 
elder  brother,  being  now  in  a  position  to  buy  his  own  ties  and 
cigarettes,  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of  independence  that  does 
not  brook  parental  control.  Nor  did  her  younger  brother 
submit  to  much  more,  for  if  the  Vicar  attempted  recourse  to 
Solomon's  formula  for  the  correction  of  sons — in  which  Fondie 
was  so  firm  a  believer — he  would  put  himself  into  a  fighting 
posture  at  once,  with  the  contested  portion  of  his  anatomy 
towards  the  wall,  and  bid  his  father,  "Lave  may  bay !" — ^which 
is  Anglo-Saxon  for  "Let  me  alone."  After  a  futile  and  undigni- 
fied scuffle  in  which  the  Vicar  got  as  much  as  he  gave,  or  rather 
more,  he  would  lock  this  unregenerate  son  in  the  room  where 
the  engagement  had  taken  place  (leaving  him  at  liberty  to  escape 
by  the  window)  and  would  go  off  to  visit  his  parishioners  in  a 
spirit  of  melancholy  despair  and  submission  to  the  Lord's  will, 
consoling  himself  before  all  and  sundry  with  the  reflection  that 
he  had  done  his  duty  and  could  do  no  more,  and  some  day 
perhaps  his  family  would  realize  the  fact  when  it  was  too  late. 
And  perhaps  (he  also  reflected)  if  his  family  had  brought  more 


S6  F  O  N  D  I  E 

happiness  into  his  heart  he  might  have  lost  sight  of  the  true 
and  only  Source  of  happiness,  and  forgotten  the  One  that 
never  fails.  Yes,  yes.  He  blew  his  nose  in  a  melancholy  minor 
key.  The  Almighty  had  his  own  way  of  reaching  our  hearts 
and  teaching  us  through  sorrow  those  lessons  that  gladness 
could  never  learn.  Who  knows  but  his  family  was  sent  to  try 
him,  to  prove  his  faith,  and  prepare  him  for  the  Courts  Above  ? 

But  the  Vicar's  life  passed  as  a  succession  of  torpors  alternat- 
ing with  outbursts  of  brief  and  dictatorial  piety.  Once  in  every 
while  he  woke  up  to  the  voice  of  an  accusing  conscience,  and  in 
a  state  of  blustering  rectitude  and  resolution  would  perceive 
all  the  things  to  which  he  had  been  blind.  He  would  perceive 
by  the  lightning-flashes  of  self-accusing  wrath,  the  brummagem 
bangles  on  Blanche's  wrist,  and  the  brummagem  brooches  that 
rose  and  fell  on  her  resentful  bosom  when  the  parental  finger 
pointed  at  them;  and  the  one  and  elevenpence  ha'penny  open- 
work stockings  that  Blanche  had  coveted  during  the  space  of 
three  music  lessons  in  Hunmouth,  and  then  bought  out  of  her 
own  money  with  the  aid  of  a  trifling  loan  from  the  carrier's 
daughter.  All  these  signs  and  tokens  of  a  household  sliding 
irrevocably  to  ruin,  that  he  had  seen  with  unseeing  eyes  during 
these  latter  weeks,  and  accepted  by  an  indolent  faith  as  part  of 
his  normal  and  natural  environment,  flashed  out  upon  his 
awakened  righteousness  as  encroaching  snares  of  the  devil, 
things  to  be  eradicated  and  stamped  down  and  resisted  with 
all  the  force  of  his  voice  and  the  whole  armor  of  God.  And 
in  a  twinkling  the  beacons  of  spiritual  warfare  would  be  ablaze. 
Blanche's  jewelry  would  be  impounded,  and  the  Hunmouth 
stockings  condemned  as  things  immodest  and  unsuitable,  to  be 
taken  o£E  at  once  and  never,  under  any  circumstances,  to  be 
worn  again.  And  Blanche  would  be  forbidden  to  make  a  friend 
of  the  carrier's  daughter,  from  whom  she  was  supposed  by  the 
parental  indignation  to  have  acquired  all  these  vicious  habits 
since  her  mother's  time. 

And  the  awakened  eye  would  see  the  hopeless  disjunction  of 


FONDIE 


57 


all  the  family  life;  the  wicked  irregularity  of  their  meals;  the 
irreligious  disorder  of  their  domestic  habits.  They  breakfasted 
too  late.  They  went  to  bed  at  scandalous  hours.  They  lacked 
all  sense  of  punctuality,  and  discipline,  and  law.  And  an 
amended  time-table  would  be  drawn  up  for  all  the  functions 
of  the  house — for  meals  and  music,  and  goings-out  and  comings- 
in.  Blanche  must  be  at  her  pianoforte  not  a  moment  later  than 
half-past  nine  each  morning;  and  she  must  never  leave  the 
house  after  tea  without  the  Vicar's  knowledge  and  consent. 
Blanche,  more  than  the  others,  stood  accused  of  having  shortened 
her  poor  mother's  days — though  this  shocking  responsibility  was 
shifted  to  the  shoulders  of  her  brothers  when  occasion  suited. 
**It  is  disgraceful!"  the  Vicar  complained.  "It  is  scandalous. 
How  can  we  expect  God's  blessing?" — as  though  Blanche 
wanted  it;  blessings  from  any  source  being  the  last  sort  of  gift 
that  appealed  to  her.  "The  whole  place  will  cry  shame  on  us 
if  we  are  not  careful" — which  latter  was  true  in  all  but  its  final 
clause  and  its  future  tense.  Grace  at  meals  and  family  prayers 
would  be  resuscitated,  and  the  family  Bible  searched  for  and 
laid  conspicuously  on  the  sideboard,  and  Blanche  would  be 
warned  that  the  Sunday  after  next,  w^ithout  fail,  she  would 
have  to  take  the  service.  Fondie  would  be  notified  to  that 
effect,  and  renotified  to  the  contrary  half  an  hour  afterwards 
by  Blanche  herself. 

"He  needn't  think  I'm  going  to  play  his  old  organ,  because 
I  aren't.     I  don't  care.     I  aren't  frightened  of  him." 

And  indeed,  why  should  she  be?  For  within  three  days  of 
the  titanic  struggle  for  righteousness'  sake,  the  Vicar  would  have 
sunk  back  into  the  beard  of  torpor  once  again,  and  breakfasts 
would  all  be  sixes  and  sevens,  and  the  Bible  on  the  sideboard 
buried  under  a  chaos  of  stockings  to  be  darned  and  pants  to 
be  mended,  and  halfpenny  evening  papers  that  Blanche's  brother 
brought  back  with  him  from  Hunmouth,  and  all  the  variegated 
litter  that  was  swept  from  the  table  to  the  sideboard  before 
me^s.    And  Blanche's  elder  brother  would  run  to  catch  his 


S8  F  O  N  D  I  E 

train,  slamming  the  front  door  most  blasphemously  behind  him 
because  his  boots  had  not  been  blacked  and  there  was  no  bacon ; 
and  Blanche's  younger  brother  would  prowl  into  the  pantry  and 
fill  his  pockets  with  sultana  raisins  and  residues  of  cake,  and 
anything  in  the  edible  line  that  happened  to  be  handy,  and  drink 
a  cup  of  cold  water  from  the  pump  in  the  kitchen,  and  secrete 
a  box  of  matches  and  go  away  to  school  with  yesterday's  Plim- 
soll  line  round  his  neck.  And  the  Vicar  would  come  down  to 
breakfast  asking  whether  there  were  any  clean  handkerchiefs 
and  collars  ready  for  him  yet,  or  holding  a  frayed  collar  in  his 
hand  because  the  shirt-button  had  come  off.  And  Blanche  would 
have  to  sew  the  latter  on  for  him,  saying  it  was  sickening,  and 
"Sit  still." 

And  there  would  no  grace  said  at  the  Vicar's  meal-table 
and  no  prayers  before  breakfast  and  after  supper;  and  no 
nightly  hymn  sung,  as  the  Vicar  had  decided  should  be  sung, 
and  ought  to  be  sung  by  right  in  all  Christian  houses  that  cher- 
ish any  hope  of  a  blessing — particularly  in  houses  of  the  clergy 
of  the  Church  of  England  with  a  parish  to  consider. 

And  the  Vicar,  weary  of  the  unwonted  labors  of  righteousness, 
as  he  would  be  after  a  day's  hard  work  with  the  spade  in  the 
vegetable  garden,  went  back  to  his  hens  and  toolshed  and  the 
nutrition  of  the  vicarage  pig.  And  Blanche's  elder  brother 
bought  more  cigarettes  and  ties,  and  smoked  in  his  bedroom  in 
defiance  of  the  recent  proclamation  that  made  this  act  illegal; 
and  borrowed  more  books  for  Sunday — that  Blanche  used  to 
procure  by  craft  and  peruse  in  her  bedroom  with  the  door  locked, 
hastily  turning  over  the  pages  in  order  to  make  sure  of  the 
wicked  parts  before  the  precious  volume  would  be  recaptured, 
which  at  any  moment  it  was  liable  to  be  if  her  brother  were  in 
the  house.  Not  that  he  had  any  principled  scruples  against 
Blanche's  reading  anything  she  liked,  in  a  general  way,  but  he 
did  not  care  for  her  to  acquire  her  knowledge  of  life's  delect- 
able mysteries  from  the  same  source  as  himself,  or  hold  any  clue 
to  the  nature  of  his  curiosities  and  the  constitution  of  his  mind. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  59 

The  moment,  therefore,  that  he  discovered  any  tampering  with 
his  literary  coffers  his  footsteps  were  heard  in  noisy  quest  of 
Blanche,  and  his  voice  called  upon  her  in  tones  peremptory  and 
menacing.  Blanche,  still  turning  the  pages  of  the  abducted  vol- 
ume, heard  the  footsteps  and  the'voice  approach  her  door,  upon 
which — after  the  obdurate  knob  had  betrayed  the  fact  of  her 
whereabouts — began  a  peremptory  bombardment. 

"Blanche!     Do  you  hear,  Blanche?" 

Dissimulation  being  impossible,  and  intelligent  reading  out  of 
the  question,  Blanche  would  raise  a  chill  and  discouraging  voice 
to  inquire: 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  my  book." 

"Which  book?" 

"You  know  which  book.  The  one  you've  sneaked  out  of 
my  drawer." 

"I  haven't  been  near  your  drawer." 

"That's  a  lie.    Why  have  you  locked  your  door?" 

"Because  I  have,"  Blanche  would  retort.  "It's  my  room. 
I  shall  lock  it  when  I  like.'* 

"Give  me  my  book." 

Silence. 

"Do  you  hear,  Blanche?     Open  this  door." 

Silence. 

"I  know  what  you're  doing.  You're  reading.  I  can  hear 
you  turning  the  pages." 

Still  silence. 

Then  Blanche's  brother  would  have  recourse  to  final  meas- 
ures, either  bombarding  the  door  with  both  fists,  after  an  ulti- 
matum that  he  meant  to  continue  until  Blanche  capitulated,  or 
threatening — if  the  door  were  not  opened  within  so  many 
counted  minutes — to  tell  her  father.  But  this  last  threat  was  of 
less  avail,  for  Blanche  knew  as  well  as  her  brother  its  manifest 
disadvantages,  and  would  challenge  him  to  "Do  it!" 

"I  shall." 
5 


6o  FONDIE 

"Do  it  then." 

"I  say,  I  shall." 

"I  say,  do  it  then."  And  when  his  further  action  proclaimed 
the  failure  of  this  line  of  attack,  Blanche  would  taunt  him. 
*'Ah!  You  dursn't.  Tell  him,  that's  all.  I  aren't  frightened, 
if  you  think  I  am." 

Sometimes,  indeed,  her  elder  brother  would  retire  with  a 
singularly  sinister  and  threatening  voice. 

"Oh,  all  right,  Blanche.     You'll  see." 

And  Blanche,  rapidly  sifting  the  final  pages  through  her 
fingers,  would  ask  herself  what  article  of  incrimination  or  value 
belonging  to  her  had  been  left  vulnerable  in  other  quarters  of 
the  house.  The  speculation  was  justified  by  long  experience, 
and  a  comparatively  trifling  space  of  time  would  be  vouchsafed 
for  its  solution  before  the  bombardment  would  be  renewed  and 
the  voice  of  Blanche's  brother,  after  calling  upon  her  for  the 
last  time  to  surrender,  would  declare  with  triumph : 

"All  right.  I've  got  something  of  yours.  Unless  you  open 
that  door  ..." 

Blanche,  busy  with  guesses  and  apprehensions,  would  say  in 
tones  of  scepticism  and  derision : 

"You  haven't  got  anvthing.    You  can't  kid  me." 

"I  have." 

"I  don't  believe  j^ou.  What  Is  it?  You  durstn't  say.  No! 
Because  you  haven't." 

But  in  one  way  or  other  the  siege  would  come  to  an  end,  and 
Blanche  would  say:  "Take  your  old  book.  Who  wants  it! 
There's  nothing  in  it.    Next  time  I'll  give  it  to  father." 

And  Blanche's  younger  brother,  following  the-general  relapse, 
made  catapults  as  before — sometimes  out  of  elastic  pulled  from 
Blanche's  old  garters  when  he  knew  she  was  wearing  her  better 
pair,  though  for  preference  out  of  the  better  pair  itself  because 
the  elastic  from  this  source  had  more  spring  and  shot  straighter. 
And  to  add  insult  to  injury  he  shot  Blanche  in  the  face  with 
them  if  she  boxed  his  ears. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  6i 

And  Blanche  went  back  to  her  jewelry,  and  put  on  the 
proscribed  Hunmouth  stockings  for  adult  and  scandalized 
Whivvle  to  point  at  and  exclaim:  "Look  ye!  See  ye  there! 
Did  you  ever!  Vicar's  daughter  an'  all!" — and  say  she  would 
be  doing  better  if  she'd  look  a  little  more  after  her  poor  father 
and  keep  him  tidier;  or,  conversely,  ask  what  her  father  was 
thinking  of  to  look  so  little  after  her. 


XVI 


THERE  were  two  vicarages  in  Whiwle;  the  old  vicarage 
and  the  new — "Two  ower  many,"  as  Deacon  Smeddy 
used  to  say  darkly  across  the  counter,  with  a  hand  at 
the  back  of  him  groping  for  the  corner  of  his  handkerchief,  ex- 
cept to  Blanche  and  Blanche's  father  at  grocery  time. 

Why  there  were  two  vicarages  instead  of  one,  nobody  in 
Whivvle  rightly  knew. 

But  whatever  the  cause  of  the  duplication  of  vicarages  may 
have  been,  the  fact  remains  incontestable  that  John  Ingram  was 
the  last  vicar  to  die  under  the  old  roof,  and  that  so  long  ago 
that  no  decipherable  stone  marks  his  place  in  the  churchyard 
today,  although  there  is  a  marble  slab  near  the  chancel,  put  up 
by  extinct  parishioners,  enumerating  more  virtues  than  this 
busy  age  has  time  to  read  or  credit,  particularly  in  nineteenth- 
century  Latin,  with  the  adjectives  in  issimus — which  seems  to 
have  been  a  characteristic  of  the  defunct  virtues  of  that  period, 
and  points  an  awful  lesson  to  posterity,  whose  vices  display  a 
growing  tendency  to  usurp  this  superlative  termination.  After 
this  superlative  man's  death,  as  though  sadly  conscious  that  the 
age  of  virtuous  superlatives  was  fast  passing,  the  Nesastical 
Missionaries  built  a  new  vicarage  more  in  conformity  with  the 
spirit  of  the  age  for  the  housing  of  his  successors;  giving  it 
dormer  windows,  and  a  slate  roof,  and  a  bathroom  over  the 
kitchen   with    a    real   cast-iron    and    marble-painted    bath — in 


62  F  O  N  D  I  E 

which  the  vicarage  potatoes  were  said  to  be  stored  at  one  time. 
This  was  the  vicarage  Blanche  lived  in — though  of  course  the 
potatoes  were  all  consumed  by  then,  and  the  inside  of  the  bath 
had  been  enamelled  a  pale  dairy  blue,  which  Blanche's  younger 
brother  never  really  cared  for.  There  was  a  paddock,  too, 
for  the  vicarage  pony  to  fatten  in ;  and  a  pond  at  once  corner 
of  it,  sunk  deep  within  a  horseshoe  of  trees,  fringed  with 
sedges,  that  looked  quite  green  and  picturesque,  and  bred 
shimmering  dragon-flies,  and  had  a  stagnant  smell  in  hot 
weather. 

Blanche  rather  liked  the  smell  and  situation,  and  used  to  take 
her  Penny  Storyettes  there  in  the  summer,  lying  all  her  length 
on  the  grass,  kicking  her  legs  every  time  the  gnats  bit  them, 
and  reading  about  Geralds  and  Gwendolynes  and  lost  heirs  and 
baronets  in  disguise,  until  somebody  whistled  from  the  bridle- 
road  two  fields  off,  or  rang  a  bicycle  bell,  whereat  she  would 
jump  to  her  feet  in  a  moment,  twisting  Gerald  and  Gwendolyne 
and  the  disguised  baronet  into  a  tube  for  waving  high  above 
her  head,  and  would  swing  off  to  join  the  whistle  or  bicycle  bell 
as  the  case  might  be.  By  the  time  she  came  home  again  Gerald 
and  Gwendolyne  would  have  been  so  much  twisted  and  un- 
twisted, and  so  much  used  for  hitting  people  and  slashing  nettles, 
that  this  particular  page  of  them  would  be  twice  as  dark  as 
any  other,  and  frayed  almost  illegible — even  in  the  strongest 
sunlight — for  all  who  had  not  read  the  story  before. 

Later,  when  her  father  had  forbidden  Penny  Storyettes  the 
house,  and  even  consigned  borrowed  copies  to  the  flame — much 
to  Blanche's  indignation — on  no  more  justifiable  ground  than 
that  he  had  threatened  to  do  so,  Blanche  transferred  her  alle- 
giance to  the  Sunday  Sacred  Pennjrworth — published  by  the 
same  illustrious  firm,  and  written  by  the  same  illustrious  author- 
esses— which  was  merely  Penny  Storyettes  with  the  addition  of 
a  text  for  the  day  and  thought  for  the  week,  and  silenced  her 
father's  objections  without  sacrificing  a  single  murder  or  breath- 
less situation,  whilst  the  advertisements  were  even  more  ab- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  63 

sorbing  than  the  literary  matter  and  contributed  liberally  to 
Blanche's  education. 

All  round  this  new  vicarage,  too,  the  Nesastical  Missionaries 
set  a  privet  hedge,  meet  for  vicarial  seclusion,  never  thinking 
that  seclusion  was  the  last  thing  Blanche  sighed  for,  and  that 
she  would  much  rather  have  had  a  house  on  the  main  street 
where  she  could  have  signalled  to  her  friends  as  they  passed  by. 
Fondie's  father,  and  Dod's  father  as  well,  and  many  more  in 
Whivvle  whose  running  days  were  over,  remembered  when  the 
hedge  used  to  be  cropped  as  close  as  Fondie's  hair  at  the  month 
end,  and  was  so  thick  and  green  In  summer  that  one  could  not 
see  through  it — just  at  the  very  season  of  the  year  when  people 
were  likely  to  pass  by — for  all  one  might  hear  somebody  clip- 
ping steadily  away  at  the  privet  on  the  garden  side,  and  know  it 
was  the  parson  in  his  flannel  shirt-sleeves,  as  could  be  proved 
by  his  voice  If  only  you  bade  him  good  day.  This  was  the 
antepenultimate  vicar,  before  Blanche's  father  read  himself 
into  the  parish,  and  did  the  WTiivvle  baptisms  and  burials. 
After  that,  the  clipping  of  the  hedge  lapsed  into  the  rheumaticky 
hands  of  Isaac  Marfitt,  who  had  two  days  a  year  allowed  for 
the  purpose,  but  the  hedge  grew  higher  than  his  crippled  arms 
could  cope  with,  despite  the  most  horrible  faces,  and  ran  up 
ten  feet  or  more  In  parts,  with  gaps  big  enough  for  Blanche's 
brother  to  creep  through,  after  being  strictly  forbidden;  and 
even  Blanche  could  make  use  of  them  In  an  emergency,  slipping 
out  when  her  father  was  coming  In,  or  in  when  he  was  coming 
out,  for  the  avoidance  of  profitless  altercation ;  and  the  vicarage 
poultry  clucked  in  the  privet  roots,  and  dug  dust-pits  in  dry 
weather,  and  scratched  their  discarded  feathers  over  the  vicarage 
lawn. 


64  F  O  N  D  I  E 


XVII 

As  for  the  old  vicarage,  It  was  converted  into  a  mere  abode 
for  the  laity,  and  never  quite  reconciled  itself  to  the 
change.  At  our  time  it  was  inhabited  by  a  gentleman 
dog-fancier,  who  kept  all  Whivvle  awake  at  nights  with  his 
kennel  of  yelping  pups;  himself  relying  on  intoxicants  for  slum- 
ber. Then  the  house  passed  into  other  hands  that  built  an 
eight-foot  wall  all  round  it,  or  rather  completed  the  eight-foot 
wall  that  had  been  extant  in  the  Vicar's  time,  and  made  the 
summit  impregnable  with  broken  glass  embedded  in  cement. 
The  glass  came  from  the  bottles  that  the  dog-fancier  left  be- 
hind him,  and  there  were  sufficient  bottles  beside,  it  is  averred,  to 
have  garnished  a  second  wall  as  big  as  the  first.  Finally,  after 
one  or  two  brief  and  undistinguished  tenancies,  the  house  stood 
empty  again,  with  a  chain  and  padlock  on  the  front  gates,  and 
a  board  saying  where  the  keys  were  to  be  had — that  Blanche's 
younger  brother  and  his  colleagues  never  rested  until  they  had 
uprooted  and  pitched  into  the  shrubbery,  where  it  lay  amid 
other  and  unnameable  things.  Everybody  that  had  rubbish  to 
dispose  of  flung  it  over  the  old  vicarage  wall,  that  came  to  be 
the  recognized  tip  for  all  Whivvle,  and,  if  preserved,  would 
have  furnished  investigators  of  years  to  come  with  a  wonderful 
knowledge  of  the  life  of  the  period,  touching  the  tinned  goods 
Whivvle  fed  on;  the  liver  salts  it  had  recourse  to;  the  hats 
and  boots  it  wore;  the  wall-papers  it  affected;  the  lamp- 
glasses  and  coal-scuttles  that  were  in  vogue,  together  with 
crocks  and  kettles  and  a  thousand  other  things  too  numerous 
to  mention. 

For  by  this  time  the  ancient  formidability  of  the  glass-forti- 
fied wall  was  gone.  Time  and  other  agencies,  some  of  them 
human,  had  made  inroads  into  the  rows  of  sharp  and  threaten- 
ing teeth,  and  there  were  half  a  dozen  places  or  more  where 
the  agile  and  the  lawless  might  elude  the  wall's  dentition,  and 


F  O  N  D  I  E  6s 

did.  Smoke  rising  from  the  old  vicarage  chimneys  on  wet 
afternoons  showed  where  Blanche's  brigand  brother  and  his 
myrmidons  plotted  round  profane  fires,  and  roused  obscene 
echoes  in  the  once  sanctified  house  where  the  last  vicar  had 
breathed  out  his  virtues  in  issimus.  And  Blanche's  substantial 
shoes  contributed  to  the  footholds  kicked  and  carved  in  the 
loosening  brickwork  of  the  outer  walls,  spurred  on  by  visions  of 
green  apples  or  unripe  pears,  or  any  other  of  the  desirable  fruits 
that  struggled  in  the  weed-grown  garden  after  a  hopeless 
maturity;  or  by  the  effectual  taunt  that  she  daren't. 

From  time  to  time  prospective  tenants  would  come  by  train 
or  other  vehicle  to  view  the  property,  and  old  Isaac  Marfitt, 
who  had  the  keys  and  acted  caretaker  for  the  owners,  would 
assume  his  most  effective  cough — the  one  that  he  had  to  stand 
still  for,  on  both  sticks,  while  it  racked  him  from  the  stomach 
upward ;  and  that  ought  to  have  elicited  a  shilling  of  any  right 
minded  person's  money,  though  such  were  few — and  after  the 
prospective  tenants  had  gazed  all  through  the  house  and 
grounds,  bawling  questions  into  the  trumpet  that  Isaac  made 
with  alternate  hands  to  alternate  ears,  and  being  told  in  return 
how  damp  the  house  was,  and  how  bad  for  the  rheumatics,  and 
how  steep  the  stairs  were  for  a  man  close  on  eighty  that  had 
worked  hard  in  his  time — they  went  their  way,  and  nothing 
further  seemed  to  happen. 

Rumor,  it  is  true — misled  in  thoughtless  moments  by  the 
smoke  that  Blanche's  younger  brother  and  his  colleagues  caused 
to  issue  violently  from  the  chimneys,  and  by  the  sound  of 
hammering  when  they  made  internal  alterations  to  bring  the 
house  more  in  accordance  with  brigand  requirements — let  the 
old  vicarage  no  end  of  times,  but  Isaac  Marfitt  on  behalf  of 
the  owners  never  did,  and  the  customary  formula  for  greeting 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  padlocked  gate  was : 

"Aud  'oose  keeps  empty." 

With  the  traditional  antiphon: 

"Aye !     She's  in  a  baddish  spot.'* 


66  F  O  N  D  I  E 

To  which  the  first  speaker,  if  of  a  talkative  disposition, 
might — ^without  stopping — subscribe  an  asquiescent: 

"She's  not  in  a  very  good  'un." 

Whivvle  came  ultimately  to  embrace  the  belief  that  the 
house  w^ould  never  let  at  all — the  time  having  gone  by  for  it — 
but  that,  in  the  inevitable  course  of  things,  she  would  be  burned 
to  the  ground.  And,  whenever  the  thread  of  smoke  linked  her 
chimneys  with  the  sky,  read  doom  in  the  portent,  and  declared : 

"Aye!  They'll  be  doin'  it  yance  too  of  tens.  Aud  'oose'U 
be  gone  yan  o*  these  fine  mornings." 


XVIII 

ONE  day  Rumor  ran  the  round  of  Whivvle  again,  very 
much  out  of  breath,  saying: 
"Aud  'oose  islet!" 

"Noo  thoo  needn't  bring  that  tale  to  me!"  retorted  Whi\^le. 
"For  I  wean't  believe  it.  Thoo's  brought  it  ower  many  times 
before.   .    .    .   Who's  she  let  to?" 

Rumor  said  apologetically  that  she  didn't  rightlins  know, 
not  having  been  telt.    To  which  Whivvle  made  rejoinder: 

"No,  nor  nobody  else." 

"It'll  be  same  folk  she's  been  let  to  these  last  couple  o'  years," 
said  Whivvle  sarcastically,  and  was  inclined  to  be  emphatic  and 
sceptical  until  Rumor  thought  to  mention  that  Fondie's  head 
had  been  seen  above  the  roof  that  morning,  and  he  was  writing 
of?  to  the  Beeminster  lawyers  by  the  night's  post  with  an  esti- 
mate for  doing  as  little  to  the  exterior  paintwork  as  possible 
at  the  lowest  cost;  whereupon  Whivvle  grew  less  contradictory 
towards  Rumor,  though  without  positively  capitulating,  say- 
ing that  folk  said  syke  things  nowadays,  and  it  wasn't  well  to 
believe  anything  one  was  telt. 

But  Whivvle  grew  more  credulous  when,  a  week  later,  Fon- 
die  was  reported  to  be  at  work  upon  the  spouting  with  a  can  of 


F  O  N  D  I  E  67 

Irab  paint  and  two  ladders,  having  received  orders  to  complete 
the  work  as  expeditiously  as  possible,  though  he  could  impart 
no  authentic  information  to  the  curious  as  to  who  the  new 
tenants  were;  regretting  with  his  wonted  and  exasperating 
humility  that  he  could  say  no  more,  and  referring  inquirers  to 
Isaac  Marfitt  who  was  no  better  informed  than  Fondie — though 
a  great  deal  deafer,  and  was  only  able  to  communicate  with 
certainty  that  his  rheumatism  had  been  very  painful  these  last 
few  days,  and  it  was  maybe  what  a  man  mud  expect  when  he 
came  to  be  nearly  eighty,  having  worked  hard  all  his  life.  To 
which  Whlwle  was  barely  able  to  ofler  a  civil  sympathy,  ask- 
ing: "Lawks!  Is  thoo  only  man  wi'  rheumatics.  Thoo  wants 
ti  ev  my  shoulder,  an'  then  thoo'll  knaw."  A  statement  from 
which  Isaac's  deafness  spared  him,  for,  on  cupping  his  ear  with 
his  knotted  hand  and  offering  it  in  this  more  insulated  state 
to  Whivvle's  sympathy,  Whiwle  merely  cried:  "Where's 
missus?"  Not  that  Isaac's  wife  had  much  to  tell  except  that 
she  had  been  ordered  to  char  the  house  inside,  and  clean  away 
all  the  brigandage  that  Blanche's  brother  and  his  myrmidons 
had  collected  in  it.  Later  on  one  of  the  owners  drove  from 
Beeminster  in  person,  and  went  over  the  house  with  Fondie, 
sanctioning  the  repapering  of  this  room,  and  the  repairing  of 
that,  and  giving  orders  for  the  removal  of  the  rubbish  from 
the  shrubbery,  which  had  accumulated  almost  to  the  height  of 
the  wall  in  places.  And  when  the  owner  was  gone  again  and 
Whiwle  came  to  Fondie  to  inquire  who  the  new  tenant  was, 
Fondie  said  with  confusion  that  "Subject  had  come  into  his 
head  a  time  or  two,  but  he'd  lacked  courage  ti  ask." 

Even  his  father — though  in  general  professing  contempt  of 
all  district  tattle — shared  the  public  curiosity  and  voiced  the 
public  resentment  at  Fondie's  diffidence,  saying: 

"Why!  Thoo's  ower  fond  ti  ask  owt.  Thoo'll  be  ower 
fond  ti  ask  for  thy  meat  next,  an'  ower  fond  ti  chew  it  when 
thoo  gets  it  gien." 

And  Blanche  told  Fondie  he  was  a  silly  fool,  for  she  was 


68  FONDIE 

desperately  anxious  to  know  as  soon  as  possible  if  there  were 
any  prospective  sweethearts  for  her  among  the  newcomers, 
and  whether  it  would  be  worth  while  to  put  on  the  Hunmouth 
stockings,  and  beg  some  blossom  from  somebody  for  her  belt, 
and  reconnoiter  the  old  house  with  a  Sunday  Sacred  screwed 
up  in  her  hand,  the  moment  it  came  to  be  occupied;  confiding 
to  her  friend  the  carrier's  daughter  that  she  hoped  the  family 
would  be  boys. 

All   this  took   place   In   June,   when   the   new   tenants   ar-' 
rived. 

Three  cartloads  of  Whiwle  rubbish  had  been  led  out  of 
the  shrubbery.  Only  in  a  few  places  did  the  flies  still  stick 
to  the  outer  paint,  and  the  paper  was  as  good  as  dry  in  the 
rooms  in  which  Fondle  had  hung  it. 

The  pantechnicon  spent  one  night  on  a  railway  truck  in  the 
Whiwle  siding,  and  some  went  to  see  it,  saying  there  was 
nothing  to  see  when  they  came  back,  though  Dod  affirmed  it 
looked  like  the  roundabouts  packed  up  in  readiness  for  Hun- 
mouth Fair,  whereat  Dod's  sister  exclaimed:  "Hunmouth 
Fair-!'*  in  a  voice  of  contempt  for  Dod's  folly.  "Hunmouth 
Fair  isn't  o'  three  month  yet."  Nevertheless  she  took  the 
opportunity  to  remind  her  father  that  he  had  promised  to  take 
her  to  Hunmouth  Fair  some  day,  and  her  father  said,  with 
refreshing  acquiescence,  "Aye,  some  day  I  will,"  though  when 
she  pressed  to  know  when  "some  day"  was  likely  to  be,  his 
voice  grew  vaguer,  and  he  said,  "We'll  see."  "You  said  you'd 
see  last  year,"  Dod's  sister  complained.  "But  you  never  do. 
You're  alius  going  ti  see.  Will  you  promise  ti  see  this  time?" 
And  Dod's  father  said,  "Aye,  we'll  see,"  in  a  tone  of  such 
cheerfulness  that  anybody  but  his  daughter  might  have  be- 
lieved that  the  voice  held  hope,  "we'll  see"  having  been  the 
equivalent  for  Hunmouth  Fair  and  all  other  keenly  desired 
things  for  as  far  back  as  her  active  memory  could  serve. 

Next  morning  two  workmen  came  from  the  place  Dod's 
sister  so  desired  to  go  to  when  the  time  arrived  for  seeing. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  ^9 

The  first  train  brought  them.  They  unrolled  two  aprons  out 
of  two  baskets  when  they  had  knocked  the  ashes  from  their 
pipes  upon  the  station  palings,  and  donned  the  aprons  and  tied 
the  tapes  in  the  leisurely  fashion  of  beings  with  all  eternity 
before  them,  looking  about  the  country  and  commenting  on 
its  general  flatness.  And  two  of  George  Piecroft's  horses  wefe 
yoked  to  the  pantechnicon  and  drew  it  to  the  old  house,  with 
the  two  workmen  seated  on  the  tailboard  that  swung  sus- 
pended by  two  chains  like  a  drawbridge  from  the  back,  their 
legs  dangling  in  unison  to  the  oscillations  of  the  van,  staring 
at  the  rearward  view  of  Whiwle  through  the  wisps  of  tobacco 
smoke  that  issued  from  their  lips  and  hung  behind  them.  On 
each  side  of  the  old  house  gates  a  line  of  expectant  eye-witnesses 
was  drawn  up  to  watch  the  van  pass  through.  No  hearse 
could  have  been  more  attentively  received.  Silence  fell  over 
the  spectators  as  the  pantechnicon  made  the  curve,  with  George 
Piecroft  leaning  out  from  the  off  horse  to  keep  an  eye  upon 
the  wheel  and  gate-post.  The  van  lumbered  through  the  open 
gates  like  a  cow  squeezing  its  flanks  through  a  byre  door,  and 
crunched  up  the  drive,  whilst  George  Piecroft  ducked  his  head 
to  the  branches  of  laburnum  and  beech  that  tried  to  push  him 
off  his  horse,  and  scraped  both  sides  of  the  tarpaulin-covered 
van  in  passing.  The  workmen  dismounted  from  their  draw- 
bridge, knocking  out  the  hot  ashes  of  their  pipes  once  more, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  spectators  who  had  time,  and  all  who 
hadn't,  drawn  in  by  the  irresistible  backwash  of  the  great 
vehicle,  followed  its  crunching  to  the  front  door,  to  see  what 
sort  of  furniture  the  leviathan  held  in  its  vast  belly,  and  take 
a  peep  into  the  old  house  whilst  the  door  stood  open. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  or  so,  after  the  workmen  had  had 
time  to  roll  up  their  shirt-sleeves  as  far  as  the  elbow,  and  the 
second  train  from  Hunmouth  had  been  heard  to  puflE  into  Whiv- 
vle  and  snort  its  way  out  again.  Bob  Machin's  spring-cart  drove 
suddenly  through  the  open  gates  and  charged  the  onlookers  in 
the  rear.     The  attack  was  so  unexpected — for  Whiwle  had 


fo  F  O  N  D  I  E 

almost  lost  thought  of  the  new  tenants  in  its  concentration  upon 
straw-filled  crates  and  canvas-swathed  furniture — that  some  of 
the  hindmost  never  even  suspected  the  spring-cart  had  come 
through  the  gates  at  all  until  Bob  Machin  cried  ''Whoa!"  and 
the  mare  snorted  down  the  backs  of  their  necks,  and  shook  her 
headgear;  and  there  was  so  much  clutching  after  hands,  and 
pulling  at  petticoats,  and  My  Goodnessing — as  though  Bob 
Machin's  mare  had  been  a  locomotive — that  the  newcomers 
might  almost  have  escaped  observation  had  not  one  of  them 
been  a  tall  and  aged  gentleman,  notably  stiff  about  the  limbs, 
who  dismounted  from  the  trap  with  deliberation  and  diflficult}% 
albeit  he  disdained  assistance  from  his  companion,  and  asked 
Bob  twice  in  an  authoritative  and  audible  voice  what  there  was 
to  pay — which  allowed  Bob  Machin  to  answer,  "Two  shillings, 
sir,"  on  the  second  occasion,  having  had  misgivings  that  eighteen- 
pence  was  all  too  little  to  ask  the  gentry,  when  he  said  it  the 
first  time;  that  being  the  usual  charge  for  everybody  except 
Whivvle — in  which  case  it  was  by  arrangement.  And  even  on 
the  second  occasion,  though  Bob  Machin  voiced  the  price  as 
audibly  as  he  could,  and  some  of  the  spectators  repeated  the 
figure  for  the  old  gentleman's  comprehension  in  tones  more 
respectful  than  distinct,  the  old  gentleman  said  *'Eh?"  as 
though  he  had  not  been  answered,  and  did  not  grasp  the  sum 
demanded  of  him  until  it  had  been  made  the  subject  of  a  chorus. 
At  first  he  seemed  disposed  to  pay  Bob  Machin  publicly,  then 
and  there,  and  Whivvle  was  already  attentive  to  see  which 
pocket  he  would  bring  his  money  from,  and  whether  it  would 
be  produced  loose  or  carried  in  a  purse,  when,  as  though  be- 
come aware  of  this  backing  of  extraneous  spectators  for  the  first 
time,  he  turned  a  cold  and  inquiring  eye  upon  them — an  eye 
filled  wath  surprise  and  interrogative  displeasure — and  bade  Bob 
Machin  follow  him  with  the  portmanteaux  to  the  house,  into 
which  he  stepped  accompanied  by  a  shy  and  slender-looking  boy, 
whose  gaze  had  been  wandering  with  abstracted  curiosity  over 
his  new  surroundings  during  the  interview. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  71 

With  that  the  two  of  them  passed  from  sight,  and  Whlwle — 
uneasy  lest  it  might  be  called  upon  a  second  time  to  sustain 
the  scrutiny  of  that  chill  rebukeful  orb — bethought  itself  of 
work  awaiting  it  at  home,  and  shook  its  infancy  by  the  shoul- 
ders, crying:  "My  wod!  What  are  you  doin'  here?"  and  "Don't 
let  me  'ave  ti  look  for  thee  onny  more!"  and  "Be  off  wi'  ye 
this  moment!"  and  "The  idea!  Comin*  up  drive  as  though 
place  belonged  ye!"  and  dismissed  its  infancy  in  front  of  it, 
by  a  succession  of  pushes  and  threatening  manual  gestures, 
asking  "What  will  gentleman  think  o'  ye?"  in  loud  voices  of 
outraged  rectitude  designed  to  explain  and  justify  its  own  pres- 
ence and  propitiate  the  eye;  but  the  eye  was  too  preoccupied 
to  attend^  and  the  ear  was  certainly  deaf. 

The  two  workmen  went  their  way  toward  nightfall  with 
their  aprons  in  their  baskets  and  their  pipes  in  their  mouths; 
and  as  there  was  an  hour  to  spare  before  the  Hunmouth  train 
went  out,  they  spent  it  at  the  White  Cow.  One  of  them  showed 
so  genial  in  company  that  it  was  odds  he  had  an  unhappy  wife 
at  home.  Of  the  new  tenants  they  were  able  to  impart  little, 
save  that  they  had  come  all  the  way  out  of  Kent,  and  the  old 
gentleman  seemed  a  Crusty  Piece.  The  last  verse  of  the  final 
song  had  to  be  decapitated,  and  the  singer  and  his  companion 
took  leave  of  the  White  Cow  in  a  hurry — the  betting  being  even 
that  they  would  have  to  come  back.  But  they  didn't,  and  as 
Jarge  Amery  remarked,  it  was  a  pity  they  had  to  go  at  all,  for 
folk  mud  *a  larned  something,  and  syke  bonny  fellows  as  yon 
didn't  come  to  Whiwle  every  day. 


XXI 

WITH  the  workmen's  departure  a  great  silence  settled 
over  the  old  house. 
Whiwle  awaited  developments,  but  developments 
were  slow,  and  it  had  to  depend  largely  on  Rumor  again,  and 


72  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Isaac  Marfitt's  wife,  for  its  intelligence — Isaac  Marfitt's  wife 
having  been  engaged  by  the  old  gentleman  to  take  donnestic 
charge  of  the  house  (while  Isaac  made  shift  for  himself  at 
home)  until  somebody  more  permanent  should  succeed  her. 
Whivvle  asked:  "What!  Is  there  no  sarvints  comin'?"  and 
Isaac's  wife  could  only  answer:  "Noo  I  knaw  ni  more  than 
thee." 

As  to  what  had  brought  them,  or  why  they  had  chosen  Whiv- 
vle for  their  home,  Isaac's  wife  knew  no  more  than  anybody 
else,  and  had  not  dared  to  make  the  least  inquiry  of  the  Eye, 
which  like  the  true  gentleman's  orb  it  was,  seemed  to  forbid  all 
interrogation.  But  it  came  back  upon  Isaac,  in  the  course  of 
ample  retrospection  at  home,  that  he  had  shown  such  an  eye 
over  the  old  house  last  back  end,  and  from  other  quarters  too 
there  came  corroboration  that  the  eye  had  been  noticed  one 
day  in  the  district  about  the  time  that  Isaac  spoke  of. 

And  it  was  not  an  eye  one  could  lightly  forget,  by  the  account 
Isaac's  wife  gave  of  it.  It  was  a  cold  gray  eye,  cold  as  a  chisel, 
that  went  right  through  one's  head,  and,  coming  out  at  the 
back,  seemed  fixed  on  things  beyond  and  had  to  be  reminded 
respectfully  twice  as  to  the  topic  of  immediate  discussion  be- 
fore it  was  withdrawn,  and  even  then  only  after  its  owner  had 
passed  his  somewhat  trembling  hand  across  it.  For  a  whole 
week  the  inmates  of  the  old  house  were  never  encountered  out- 
side its  gate,  although  there  was  a  report — ^which  some  believed 
— that  they  had  been  seen  along  the  roadway  at  nightfall. 
Jarge  Amery  swore  he  passed  them  on  the  Mersham  Road  and 
said  good  night,  and  the  old  gentleman  lifted  his  head  and  the 
boy  answered — but  that  was  nothing  to  go  by,  for  Jarge  Amery 
was  always  swearing.  During  this  time  Blanche  never  caught 
a  vestige  of  the  delicate  and  overgrown  boy,  though  she  tried 
her  best.  She  went  to  Fondie  as  a  last  resource,  and  asked 
Fondie  what  he  was  like,  but  Fondie,  with  a  look  of  humble 
sadness,  had  to  confess  he  had  not  seen  him,  and  Blanche  said 
it  was  sickening. 


FOND  IE  73 

"You  never  see  anything,  Fondie,  just  when  anybody  wants 
you  to." 

Fondle  admitted  the  impeachment. 

"Why,  I  misdoot  I  don't  see  a  deal,  Miss  Blanche,"  he  said, 
"as  you  very  rightly  remark.  I'se  jealous  there's  a  many 
things  I  don't  observe  that  mud  be  ti  my  advantage  nobbut  I 
discarned  'em  better.     My  feythur  says  same.'* 

On  Sunday  Whivvle  held  itself  expectant  to  see  the  new- 
comers at  church,  and  Blanche  looked  forward  to  the  morning 
service  with  more  interest  in  things  divine  than  she  had  shown 
for  long  enough.  Almost  the  first  thing  she  did  after  tea  on 
Saturday  was  to  wash  the  Hunmouth  openwork  stockings  and 
hang  them  before  the  kitchen  fire  to  dry,  so  that  their  wear 
might  be  resumed  on  the  morrow  without  interruption.  And 
she  trimmed  up  her  hat  and  begged  some  double  pink  pyre- 
thrums  for  her  belt,  and  bought  a  bag  of  silver-coated  cachoux 
instead  of  mammoth  humbugs  for  the  sermon,  so  that  her 
breath  might  smell  very  fashionable  and  attractive  if  she  had 
occasion  to  cough  in  church,  or  speak  to  anybody  after  the  serv- 
ice— first  impressions  counting  for  so  much ;  and  was  among  the 
earliest  in  church,  sitting  where  she  could  command  an  un- 
interrupted view  of  the  porch  and  the  flagged  pathway  through 
the  graves  and  long  grass  to  the  gate  beyond.  But  nobody 
came,  except  somebody  sickening,  who  had  been  the  week. be- 
fore, and  Blanche  was  not  in  the  least  effusive  to  see  him,  and 
shook  his  attentions  off  almost  with  a  word  when  he  asked 
which  way  she  was  walking  home,  saying  she  wasn't  walking 
home  any  way,  and  her  father  as  close  behind,  and  somebody 
mustn't  be  seen  speaking  to  her  now,  or  she  would  get  into  a 
frightful  row,  and  her  brothers  were  watching  them,  and  she 
couldn't  stop  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  so  left  somebody  all  by  himself  behind  her  for  the 
worshippers  to  stare  at  as  they  issued,  with  nothing  in  the  world 
to  do  but  make  a  feeble  pretext  of  reading  epitaphs,  whilst 
Blanche  went  away  in  quite  a  bad  temper,  wishing  she  had 


74  FONDIE 

bought  humbugs  after  all  and  chanced  it.  She  had  no  hope 
that  the  newcomers  would  make  their  first  appearance  in  the 
evening,  though  she  went  to  church  prepared  for  the  eventuality 
— taking  all  the  silver-plated  cachoux  that  she  could  recapture 
— cachoux  forming  admirable  ammunition  for  watch-spring 
guns,  as  Blanche's  brother  was  aware. 

But  the  newcomers  proved  indifferent  to  her  preparations, 
and  it  was  Farmer  Warkup's  second  son,  with  the  light  blue 
eyes  and  flaxen  eyelashes,  that  ultimately  set  her  home  by  the 
long  way.  Fondie  might  have  done  it  if  only  Fondie  had  had 
a  little  more  dash,  for  Blanche  was  in  that  disgusted  frame  of 
mind  that  does  not  stick  at  trifles,  and  she  would  have  walked 
home  with  anybody  just  to  let  the  absentee  see  she  didn't  care 
and  could  do  very  well  without  him.  And,  after  all,  Fondie 
had  very  nice  brown  eyes — if  he  had  only  known  how  to  use 
them.  And  a  very  nice  smile — if  he  hadn't  seemed  as  much  in 
awe  of  it  as  he  was  of  his  own  father.  And  if  he  hadn't  been 
possessed  of  a  hopeless  deference  that  deferred  to  everybody 
and  had  no  spirit  of  its  own.  Fondie  would  no  more  have  dared 
to  ask  Blanche  which  way  she  was  walking  home — except  in 
the  purest  spirit  of  polite  inquiry — than  he  would  have  dared 
to  slap  her  father  on  the  back,  or  hail  him  "Vicar."  And 
though  Blanche  had  given  him  the  opportunity  to  wink  at 
her  ^nd  be  brave,  a  hundred  times  or  more  in  church  (and  out 
of  it),  he  had  never  taken  one  of  them,  knowing  her  better  (in 
his  own  mind)  than  to  believe  Miss  Blanche  would  ever  en- 
tertain such  an  idea,  or  wish  him  to  forget  himself  and  what 
was  due  to  the  Vicar's  daughter. 

Even  when  Blanche  had  taken  hold  of  him  by  both  arms — as 
she  did  on  one  occasion — and  looked  straight  into  his  brown 
eyes,  saying:  "I  don't  believe  you  know  how  to  wink,  Fondie!" 
Fondie  only  smiled  a  brief  apologetic  smile  and  told  her:  'Tse 
jealous  you  do  me  ower  much  credit.  Miss  Blanche." 

"Wink  then,"  Blanche  charged  him.  "Go  on.  Do  it.  You 
can't.     I  don't  believe  you  know  how." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  7S 

"I  wish  I  mud  say  i'  truth  I  didn't,  Miss  Blanche,"  Fondle 
confessed,  "but  I  misdoot  there's  a  deal  of  things  I  knaw  that 
I  should  be  better  for  being  ignorant  on." 

"What  are  they?"  Blanche  asked  with  a  directitude  that 
made  Fondie  Bassiemoor  blink.  "Go  on.  Tell  me.  I  don't 
care.     I  aren't  frightened.    You  dursn't,  Fondie." 

And,  true  enough,  Fondie  durstn't. 

So  Farmer  Warkup's  second  son  with  the  flaxen  hair  and 
eyelashes  got  the  benefit  of  the  cachoux,  and  the  reversion  of 
the  pink  pyrethrums,  whilst  Fondie  walked  respectfully  to  the 
vicarage  gate  with  the  reverend  father,  talking  hymns  and 
weather  prospects  in  his  Sabbath  voice,  and  studying  his  toes 
as  if  they  were  texts,  out  of  consideration  for  the  day  and  the 
exalted  company  he  walked  in. 


XXII 

ON  the  Monday  Blanche  put  on  her  Hunmouth  stock- 
ings again,  though  the  hole  in  the  right  foot  which 
had  first  declared  itself  on  Sunday  made  walking  no 
pleasure.  But  Fashion  must  be  served.  Blanche  said  it  should 
be  mended  tomorrow — which  was  her  usual  day  for  mending 
most  things,  as  the  Vicar  and  her  brothers  complained ;  Blanche's 
invariable  rejoinder  to  such  protestations  being,  "I  aren't  the 
servant." 

That  very  morning,  indeed,  her  elder  brother  had  slammed 
the  front  door  almost  ofiF  its  hinges  because  there  were  still  no 
pearl  buttons  on  his  pet  fancy  shirt ;  and  the  Vicar  was  wearing 
winter  pants  because  his  second  summer  pair  had  disappeared 
mysteriously  in  the  wash — Blanche  having  mislaid  them  as  an 
alternative  to  repair;  and  Blanche's  younger  brother  had  se- 
creted a  white  petticoat  of  Blanche's  at  the  very  top  of  the 
bathroom  cupboard,  where  the  fluff  accumulated  like  rich  fur, 
an  inch  thick  or  more,  under  the  belief  that  Blanche  would  be 
6 


76  FONDIE 

requiring  the  garment  that  day.  This  was  an  act  of  revenge  for 
odd  stockings  which  Blanche's  reprehensible  neglect  caused  him 
to  have  to  wear.  And  there  had  been  a  godless  scrimmage  on 
the  landing,  and  blows  given  and  returned,  and  a  violent  drum- 
ming on  the  outer  panels  of  Blanche's  derisively  defended  door, 
and  much  bad  blood  and  language,  and  as  the  Vicar  despair- 
ingly inquired:  How  could  they  expect  a  blessing?  How  was 
God  ever  likely  to  prosper  them  with  such  dissensions  in  the 
family  ? 

Whereat  he  awoke  from  the  vicarial  torpor  once  again,  as- 
sumed the  waived  parental  authority  once  more,  and  became 
wrathful  and  resonant  with  righteous  resolution,  saying  he 
would  not  have  it,  and  it  must  not  be,  and  it  should  not  be,  and 
he  meant  to  be  obeyed.  And  Blanche's  Hunmouth  stockings 
had  to  come  off  before  he  w^ould  sit  down  to  breakfast  with 
her,  or  suffer  grace.  And  he  confiscated  three  bangles,  and  a 
beautiful  medallion  from  the  last  Hunmouth  Fair  in  colors — 
bearing  the  following  stimulating  inscription  round  its  peri- 
phery: 

'1  AM  OUT  FOR  A  GOOD  TIME.  ARE  YOUr 
— which  Blanche  had  thought  would  be  appropriate  to  wear  on 
her  breast  this  afternoon,  in  case  she  met  anybody  belonging  to 
the  old  house.  And  he  tore  up  a  valuable  illustrated  edition  of 
"Secrets  of  the  Cloister,"  which  Blanche  had  abstracted  from 
her  elder  brother's  private  drawer  by  a  secret  process  of  her 
own;  and  the  Vicar  in  his  zealous  haste  would  have  totally 
destroyed  the  current  Grand  Special  Illustrated  Bathing  Sum- 
mer Number  of  Tricky  Topics  (2d.,  or  post  free  to  any  part  of 
the  British  Isles,  2jd.)  if  Blanche  had  not  snatched  it  from  him 
in  time  with  the  declaration  that  it  was  the  Sunday  Sacred,  and 
belonged  to  Fondle  Bassiemoor;  truth  constituting  no  essential 
part  of  Blanche's  code  of  honor,  as  her  father  not  infrequently 
deplored,  asking: 

"How  am  I  to  believe  you?" 

To  which  Blanche's  wayward  answer  was: 


F  O  N  D  I  E  77 

"Who  wants  you  to  believe  me?  You  needn't  unless  you 
like.    /  don't  care." 

After  which  demonstrations  of  authority  the  Vicar  ordered 
Blanche  to  her  pianoforte,  himself  washing  up  the  breakfast 
things,  and  warning  her  that  on  Sunday  next  without  fail  he 
should  expect  her  to  take  her  proper  part  In  the  musical  service. 
Furthermore,  as  a  practical  acknowledgment  of  parochial  re- 
sponsibility, Blanche  must  accompany  him  this  afternoon  in  a 
call  upon  the  newcomers,  it  being  high  time  (said  he)  that 
she  assumed  her  mother's  place  in  the  work  of  the  parish  and 
lent  her  attention  to  serious  things. 

Duly  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  therefore,  when  the  Vicar 
after  long  search  had  found  and  furbished  up  by  means  of  bread- 
crumbs an  antiquated  visiting  card,  and  Blanche  had  been 
bidden  to  remove  the  lilac  from  her  belt  as  unbecoming  in  a 
Vicar's  daughter,  she  and  her  father  made  their  way  to  the  Old 
House.  The  Vicar  had  donned  his  Sabbath  coat  over  the 
grav}'-spotted  vest,  and  his  Sunday  boots — first  wiping  the 
residue  of  yesterday's  dust  from  them  on  the  inside  edge  of  his 
coat  tails — and  he  carried  in  his  left  hand  the  black  b*d  gloves 
for  state  occasions  that  long  usage  had  compressed  to  the  size 
and  substance  of  a  cigar;  whilst  in  his  right  hand  he  bore  the 
vicarial  stick  without  a  ferrule,  that  had  a  beard  at  the  end, 
which  as  he  walked  he  pointed  here  and  there  to  the  familiar 
objects  Blanche  had  seen  scores  of  times  and  was  sick  of  seeing; 
talking  parochially  all  the  while  to  get  his  vicarial  voice  in  or- 
der, and  have  his  words  on  flow  when  they  were  wanted. 

But  they  were  evidently  not  to  be  wanted  that  afternoon,  for 
the  Old  House  gate  was  shut  and  padlocked  on  the  inner  side, 
and  though  the  Vicar  tried  it  impotently  a  time  or  two,  and 
hung  by  the  gate  awhile,  dropping  *'Ah's'*  and  "Oh's"  and 
comments  on  the  fact  that  the  newcomers  must  evidently  be 
out,  in  tones  manifestly  designed  to  reach  their  ears  if  they 
happened  to  be  anywhere  within  the  vicinity,  the  old  house 
yielded  no  sign.    Not  a  blind  stirred,  nor  curtain  blinked. 


78  F  O  N  D  I  E 

So  there  was  nothing  left  for  the  callers — after  a  final  half- 
hearted testing  of  the  gate — but  to  return.  Blanche  slipped 
her  father  outside  Deacon  Smeddy's  shop  door,  whilst  he  was 
telling  Mrs.  Taylor  we  must  all  submit,  and  there  was  One 
above.  .  .  .  He  had  just  been  calling  (said  he)  upon  the  new 
residents,  with  his  daughter  .  .  .  with  his  daughter  .  .  .  and 
looking  first  over  his  right  shoulder  and  next  over  his  left,  said 
"Blanche!"  in  bewilderment.  "What's  got  the  girl?  Where 
IS  she?"  and  shook  his  head  despondently  when  Mrs.  Taylor 
told  him  "She's  gone,  sir." 

After  all  it  was  providential  in  one  way  that  Blanche  had 
done  so,  for  a  bicycle  bell  had  been  ringing  for  her  all  over 
Whlvvle,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  when  Blanche 
waved  her  hand — having  on  this  occasion  no  twisted  copy  of  the 
Sunday  Sacred  with  her.  In  another  way,  however.  Providence 
had  played  her  false,  for  her  desertion  of  her  father  served  to 
reanimate  his  righteous  fires,  with  the  consequence  that  they 
had  two  graces  and  a  sermon  for  tea,  and  sufficient  Bible  for 
supper  to  put  a  whole  parish  to  sleep,  and  Blanche  heard  that 
whilst  she  wandered  in  company  with  the  blc}^cle  bell  along 
Whiwle's  least  rideable  lanes,  the  steel  eye  and  the  slender  boy 
had  been  seen  in  the  churchyard,  stooping  over  tombstones. 
Blanche  called  Fondle  a  beast  when  he  imparted  the  intelligence, 
saying,  "You  might  have  come  and  told  us.  Fondle!"  and 
Fondle  admitted  that  perhaps  he  had  been  to  blame  In  not  doing 
so,  and  that  the  thought  had  indeed  come  into  his  head,  but 
he  did  not  know  where  to  find  (Miss)  Blanche  at  the  moment 
— which  Blanche  declared  was  nothing  but  a  mean  excuse. 

"You  knew  I  must  be  somewhere,  Fondle.  I  was  only  in  the 
green  lane  with  somebody.  You  could  have  come  and  looked 
for  us  if  you*d  liked.  But  you  didn't  like.  All  right,  Fondle, 
I  shan't  forget  you." 

On  the  morrow,  after  slipping  out  of  sight  behind  the  clock 
the  discolored  visiting  card  that  her  father  had  reared  in  front 
of  it  as  a  reminder  of  the  call  still  to  be  paid,  Blanche  eluded 


F  O  N  D  I  E  79 

the  parental  presence  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  soliloquizing: 
"I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  him!"  and  betook  herself  to 
the  churchyard.  With  such  trinkets  as  she  could  recapture, 
including  (fortunately)  the  medallion,  the  vestry  key  in  her 
pocket,  and  the  all  but  annihilated  Summer  Double  Bathing 
Number  of  Tricky  Topics  screwed  up  in  her  hand,  she  seated 
herself  on  the  Sacred-to-the-memory-of-Jonas-Warkup  ledger 
(also  Sarah,  relict  of  the  above)  where  she  passed  a  tedious  and 
unprofitable  hour.  Neither  among  the  tombs  nor  in  the  vicinity 
ot  the  old  house  was  her  vigilance  rewarded  by  any  sign  of  thd 
newcomers.  Save  that  there  were  blinds  and  curtains  behind 
the  one  window  visible  to  the  outer  world  through  the  over- 
grown gateway,  and  the  house  looked  curiously  unfamiliar  in 
its  new  paint,  and  smoke  rose  idly  from  one  chimney,  the  old 
vicarage  might  have  been  untenanted  still,  for  all  the  signs  of 
human  life  about  it.  Towards  tea-time — or  somewhat  later — 
Blanche  returned  to  face  the  parental  wrath,  and  say  how  did' 
she  know  the  time  was  what  it  was?  He  ought  to  buy  her  a 
watch  of  her  own — she'd  often  asked  him.  And  how  did  she 
know  where  the  card  was?  Which  card  did  he  mean?  And 
how  did  she  know  he  had  wanted  her  to  go  with  him  this 
afternoon?     He  should  have  said  so  at  dinner.     What? 

So  she  took  the  stockings  off  once  more,  and  the  bangle 
deciding  for  the  thousandth  time  that  Whiwle  was  sickening. 


xxni 

JUST  as  tomorrow  was  Blanche's  day  for  doing  all  Im- 
portant duties,  and  next  term  the  term  for  her  to  resume 
her  scholastic  studies,  so  Blanche's  brother,  by  name 
Alexis — though  more  familiarly  known  to  the  district  as  Bul- 
locky,  by  reason  of  his  proclaimed  ambition  to  act  as  beast-boy 
and  drive  cattle — was  perpetually  destined  for  the  Hunmouth 
Grammar  School,  where  he  was  to  take  scholarships  in  due 


8o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

course,  and  go  to  college,  and  be  "larned  parsoning"  (as  Dod's 
father  put  it)  like  the  Vicar. 

In  the  meanwhile  he  attended  the  Whiwle  church  school, 
whither  he  had  been  sent  in  the  first  instance  by  his  father 
partly  to  strengthen  the  schoolmaster's  hands  and  raise  the 
standard  of  the  school;  partly  to  furnish  Whiwle  with  a  pa- 
rochial lesson  in  Christian  equality,  and  propitiate  the  Non- 
conformist element  in  the  parish,  which  was  strong;  and  partly 
for  reasons  of  economy,  albeit  these  latter  were  not  accentuated. 

At  the  Whiwle  school  he  wore  corduroy  breeches  like  the 
rest  of  his  companions,  that  there  might  be  no  invidious  and 
external  distinctions  between  the  Vicar's  son  and  those  he  sat 
with;  and  such  other  distinctions  as  there  were,  or  might  have 
been,  he  nobly  seconded  his  father's  efforts  to  eliminate.  He 
wore  out  his  breeches  at  the  seat  and  knees  with  the  practiced 
manner  of  a  ploughboy ;  kicked  holes  into  the  toes  of  his  cobbled 
boots,  attached  by  broken  laces  to  legs  that  nobody  would  ever 
have  suspected  at  first  sight  of  being  own  brothers  to  Blanche's 
shapely  pair,  although  some  dim  resemblance  to  Blanche  might 
be  described,  on  a  close  scrutiny,  in  the  shallower  depths  of  his 
light  blue  eyes. 

As  his  tenure  at  the  church  school  was  reputedly  short,  he 
attached  himself  in  no  considerable  degree  to  stud)',  but  rioted 
in  the  luxury  of  the  lower  standards,  spelling  as  precariously  as 
any  hind's  son,  and  speaking  the  ancient  vernacular  of  the  soil ; 
saying  like  Blanche  that  he  "didn't  care,"  on  the  ground  that 
he  would  be  leaving  next  term,  and  nobody  would  be  able  "ti 
do  owt  at  him"  then. 

So  Blanche's  brother,  Bullocky,  culling  the  full  advantage  of 
his  position,  learned  as  little  as  possible  of  what  the  schoolmaster 
had  to  impart,  but  lived  his  own  life  in  his  own  industrious  and 
vivid  way,  eschewing  books  as  if  they  had  been  soap  and  water, 
and  avowing  openly  to  the  village  his  determination  to  embrace 
no  calling  that  involved  orthography  or  the  use  of  the  pen.  On 
Tuesday,  which  was  killing  day,  he  might  frequently  be  found 


F  O  N  D  I  E  8i 

at  the  butcher's,  where  he  matriculated  In  all  the  principles 
and  practice  of  this  gory  trade — bringing  back  an  odor  of  the 
shambles  and  fresh-killed  meat  to  the  tea-table.  At  Christmas 
time  he  participated  indefatigably  in  the  massacre  of  the  inno- 
cents, by  which  civilized  and  Christian  people  commemorate 
the  nativity  of  the  Savior  of  Mankind ;  and  was  the  prime 
mover  in  the  execution  of  the  vicarage  pig.  At  other  seasons 
of  the  year  he  tramped  behind  dusty  and  perspiring  herds  In 
company  with  beast-lads;  helped  at  shearings  and  sheep- 
dippings;  learned  farriery  and  plg-jobbing,  and  followed  the 
itinerary  of  the  neighboring  shire  horse,  and  knew  the  secret 
processes  of  nature  as  intimately,  and  reverenced  them  as  little, 
as  he  did  the  order  of  his  father's  service.  In  addition  he  was 
an  adept  in  the  manufacture  and  manipulation  of  the  catapult 
— being  known  to  kill  blue-bottles  stone-dead  on  the  church 
wall  at  thirty  paces — and  was  the  acknowledged  leader  In  law- 
lessness of  Whivvle's  younger  generation  of  sons.  As  a  rule 
all  feminine  cooperation  or  companionship  was  despised — 
Blanche's  younger  brother  not  yet  having  reached  the  age  when 
the  art  and  practice  of  "lasslng"  was  deemed  among  the  manly 
virtues,  and  any  girl — with  the  exception  of  his  sister  alone — 
who  showed  the  least  hankering  to  attach  herself,  however 
unostentatiously,  to  the  Bullocky  and  his  brigand  followers,  was 
discouraged  In  terms  which  lacked  nothing  on  the  score  of 
clarity  and  forcefulness. 

The  rigid  excluslveness  of  the  old  house,  that  had  first  merely 
stimulated  Blanche's  brother's  curiosity  no  less  than  her  own, 
aggravated  In  the  end  his  resentment.  From  chalking  ofiFensIvo 
symbols  on  the  outer  walls,  he  led  his  myrmidons  at  last  to  more 
audacious  sallies.  The  old  vicarage  became  the  objective  of 
secret  expeditions  and  campaigns.  Cryptic  words  were  coined 
to  express  It  In  parlance.  Passwords  and  countersigns  were 
invented  to  serve  the  occult  needs  of  the  conspirators,  who 
hoo-eed  and  hoo-hooed  incessantly  about  the  precincts  as  they 
prowled  on  all  fours  around  Its  high  walls  at  night.     Various 


82  FONDIE 

forms  of  attack  were  conceived  and  executed,  with  such  success 
that  Blanche's  brother  was  able  to  come  home  on  the  very- 
evening  of  churchyard  Tuesday  with  a  new  scratch  from  his 
eyebrow  to  his  chin,  and  boast  to  Blanche  that  he  had  made 
a  complete  reconnaissance  of  the  grounds,  and  had  been  at  one 
time  as  close  to  the  old  man  and  his  grandson  as  he  was,  at  the 
moment  of  speaking,  to  Blanche. 

Blanche  said,  "You're  a  liar,"  but  he  answered,  *'LIar  your- 
self," and  without  waiting  to  argue  the  point  of  veracity  fur- 
ther, undertook  to  take  his  dying  oath  that  the  facts  were  as 
related.  The  boy,  said  he,  was  on  his  hands  and  knees,  dig- 
ging up  weeds  from  the  garden  pathway  with  a  table-knife. 
The  old  man  walked  continually  to  and  fro,  with  alternate 
hands  laid  over  the  bend  in  his  back — first  the  right  hand  and 
then  the  left — with  the  palm  outward.  Blanche's  brother  could 
have  put  a  pebble  in  as  he  passed  If  he'd  wanted ;  only  he  didn't 
want. 

Blanche  asked,  "What's  he  like?" — by  which,  of  course,  she 
meant  the  boy — and  the  BuUocky  answered  that  he  was  all 
right,  In  a  voice  that  expressed  small  opinion  of  all  right,  even 
at  all  right's  best.  "Is  he  good-looking?"  Blanche  inquired, 
and  the  Bullocky  said,  "He's  a  fond-looking  devil."  Blanche 
asked,  "How  old  Is  he?"  and  the  Bullocky  retorted,  "Hpw  div 
I  knaw?"  in  a  voice  of  scorn.  "Older  than  you?"  Blanche 
suggested  hopefully,  and  the  Bullocky's  resentment  of  this  sug- 
gested advantage  in  years  elicited  the  darkling  reply:  "I 
could  slog  him  wi'  yan  hand."  "I  don't  believe  you've  seen 
him  at  all !"  Blanche  exclaimed  as  retaliation  for  her  brother's 
grudging  replies.  "Where  were  you  stood?"  Her  brother 
returned  "Backside  o'  liboUom  (laburnum)  tree" — an  answer 
that  seemed  to  satisfy  all  her  requirements,  for  she  questioned 
his  veracity  no  further,  and  looked  on  the  Bullocky  with  an 
eye  of  Indifference  for  his  paltry  triumph. 

"Well?" 

"Well?"  repeated  the  Bullocky  In  mocking  tones. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  83 

"What  if  you  were.     There's  nothing  in  that." 

This    flat    disparagement    of    the    Bullocky's    achievement 
brought  the  flush  of  conflict  to  his  forehead. 

"Isn't  there?"  he  demanded,  with  a  sudden  sharpening  of 
eye  and  a  menaceful  inflation  of  nostril. 

"No,  there  isn't." 

"Thoo  dursn't  do  it!" 

"Dursn't  I?" 

"No,  thoo  dursn't." 

"I  aren't  frightened  if  you  think  I  am." 

"Do  it,  then." 

"I  could,  easy." 

"Do  it,  then." 

"I  say  I  could,  easy,  if  I  wanted." 

"When?" 
,     "Anytime." 

"Not  tomorrow." 

"Yes,  tomorrow." 

"Not  after  tea." 

"Yes,  after  tea." 

"Not  ower  wall." 

"Yes,  ower  wall." 

"Thoo  dursn't  throw  a  cap  ower,  an'  fetch  it." 

"Dursn't  I?" 

"No,  thoo  dursn't." 

"I'll  let  you  see  if  I  dursn't." 

"Thoo  says  so." 

"I  will." 

"Do  it,  then." 

"All  right,  I  will  do  it." 

"Thoo'll  do  it  when  I'se  there  ti  see  thee?" 

"Of  course  I  will.    What  do  you  think  ?    I  aren't  frightened 
of  you." 

"Tomorrow  night,  after  tea?" 

"Yes.    Tomorrow  night  after  tea." 


84  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Oweryon  wall?" 
"Yes.     Over  yon  wall." 


XXIV 

BLANCHE'S  father  had  forbidden  her  to  go  out  In  the 
evening,  saying  that  this  was  no  time  for  a  Vicar's 
daughter  to  be  abroad,  but  there  were  signs  that  the 
Vicar's  volcanic  righteousness  was  subsiding,  and  the  ashes 
of  such  wrath  as  still  encumbered  him  were  cold  enough  to 
be  risked  with  impunity.  So  when  he  betook  himself  after 
tea,  with  a  hammer  and  a  handful  of  assorted  nails  and  a  roll 
of  roofing-felt,  to  the  hen-house,  complaining  that  none  of 
his  children  ever  thought  of  taking  these  responsibilities  off 
his  shoulders,  and  that  the  poultry-shed  might  fall  to  pieces 
for  all  they  cared,  Blanche  had  no  compunction  in  reassuming 
the  Hunmouth  stockings  and  her  best  white  Sunday  petticoat — 
as  being  appropriate  to  an  eight-foot  wall — and  a  superb  as- 
sortment of  jewelry,  comprising  three  rings,  five  bracelets,  and 
a  hand-clasp  brooch  in  amethysts  and  brilliants.  With  these, 
and  a  white  canvas  tennis  hat  on  her  head,  and  a  bunch  of 
blue  forget-me-not  strangulated  in  her  belt,  and  in  her 
hand  the  current  number  of  Tricky  Topics  that  a  friend  hap- 
pened to  leave  behind  him  that  afternoon,  her  prepara- 
tions for  the  approaching  ceremony  were  complete.  By  the 
time  the  Vicar  had  begun  to  call  upon  her  name,  and  the 
names  of  his  children  in  rotation,  with  increasing  volume  and 
impatience,  from  the  hen-house  roof — where,  in  an  awkward 
and  unclerical  posture,  he  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  a  pair  of 
pincers — Blanche  was  already  promenading  her  smile  down  the 
Whivvle  High  Street,  as  though  she  had  not  a  parent  or  a 
trouble  in  the  world.  Fondle  was  just  emerging  from  the 
wheelwright's  yard,  beneath  the  famous  signboard,  as  Blanche 
swung  by;  and  Blanche  broadened  her  smile  to  its  most  ami- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  8s 

cable   dimensions  and  came   to   a  standstill,   saying   "Hello!" 

Fondie's  sense  of  what  was  due  to  the  Vicar's  daughter,  and 
the  knowledge  of  his  own  place,  effectually  forbade  a  return 
of  this  colloquial  greeting.  Indeed,  his  curious  politeness  never 
made  use  of  it  at  any  time.  To  her  brief  but  very  friendly 
"Hello!"  he  raised  his  cap  and  returned  a  polite  "Good  even- 
ing, Miss  Blanche,"  and  lowered  his  eyes  respectfully  before 
hers  that  never  blinked. 

"Where  are  you  off?"  asked  the  Vicar's  daughter  without 
any  abatement  of  her  big  smile,  looking  dispassionately  up  and 
down  from  his  new-brushed  boots  to  his  recently  washed  face 
and  the  green  mixture  cloth  cap  that  he  wore  for  all  non-work- 
ing occasions  save  Sunday.  As  Fondie  held  a  roll  of  music 
under  his  left  armpit,  and  had  his  second  best  suit  on,  and 
his  hands  as  clean  as  a  scrubbing-brush  and  scouring-stone 
could  make  them,  there  was  little  need  for  Blanche  to  ask  the 
question.  And  indeed  she  laid  no  stress  on  it,  for  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  and  before  Fondie  could  tell  her  what  she  already 
knew,  she  said,  "Come  along  with  us,  Fondie." 

Such  an  invitation,  issuing  from  such  a  source,  was  enough 
to  make  Fondie's  heart  play  fivers  with  his  ribs.  He  drew  the 
music-roll  from  under  his  armpit  and  unrolled  and  reroUed  it 
disquietedly,  saying  with  an  increase  in  color:  "I  should  only 
like  ti,  Miss  Blanche." 

"Well,  come  along,  then,"  the  Vicar's  daughter  bade  him. 
And  as  he  did  not  immediately  respond  to  the  command,  asked, 
"What  are  you  stopping  for?" 

Fondie  was  stopping  because  of  that  fatal  sense  of  obligation 
and  duty  that  played  such  havoc  with  the  Devil  in  him,  and 
effectually  routed  all  the  bad  resolutions  he  ever  had  the  forti- 
tude to  make  that  would  have  Improved  him  so  Immeasurably 
had  he  only  possessed  the  courage  to  act  upon  them.  Hence 
his  name,  appropriately  enough,  Fondie. 

"...  I'se  jealous,"  Fondie  began  apologetically,  coerced 
by  his  tyrannizing  conscience  that — Oh,  how  desperately ! — he 


86  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Struggled  to  ignore,  **  .  .  .  I'se  jealous  it'll  not  have  to  be 
ti-night,  Miss  Blanche.  My  aunt's  expecting  me."  The  very 
mention  of  the  word  *'aunt"  as  any  reason  for  inability  or 
conscientious  scruple  caused  the  lines  of  Blanche's  ample 
smile  to  curve  in  incredulous  scorn  to  the  inquiry,  "What  if 
she  is?" 

"She'll  mebbe  be  stood  waiting  o'  me  noo,"  Fondie  explained, 
"again  gate." 

"Well,  let  her  wait  then,"  said  Blanche  intolerantly.  "More 
fool  her.  She  won't  wait  long.  /  shouldn't.  Surely  to  good- 
ness you're  big  enough  to  please  yourself  what  you  do  without 
asking  her,  Fondie." 

Fondie  admitted  the  justice  of  the  remark  with  his  momen- 
tary modest  smile,  saying,  why,  in  a  way  he  was,  and  why,  in 
another  way,  he  wasn't.  Miss  Blanche;  and  he  misdooted  even 
at  best  o'  times  he  thought  overmuch  about  pleasing  himself, 
and  not  enough  about  pleasing  other  people.  And  as  Vicar 
very  wisely  observed  .  .  . 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  Blanche  broke  in  abruptly,  her  patience 
though  not  her  smile  exhausted  by  this  disposition  on  Fondie's 
part  to  sermonize.  "It's  sickening.  I  didn't  come  to  be  talked 
to  about  him.  I  can  get  plenty  of  him  at  home.  Particularly 
these  last  few  days.  He's  been  awful.  Nothing  but  what  folks 
ought  to  do."  She  let  her  blue  eyes  wander  over  Fondie's 
music-roll  with  a  look  of  resentment  in  them  for  this  silent 
evidence  and  mute  reproach  of  dut}\  "You're  always  prac- 
ticing. I  don't  know  how  you  can.  I  hate  it.  What  good 
does  it  do  you?" 

"Why,  Fse  jealous  not  a  deal,"  Fondie  modestly  confessed. 
"But  my  awn  intelligence  mun  be  blamed  for  that.  Miss 
Blanche.  I  misdoot  I  shouldn't  play  any  better  if  I  practiced 
less." 

Blanche  told  him  he  played  well  enough  for  Whiwle  as  it 
was,  and  he  was  a  fool  to  play  better  than  he  needed.  ^Vho'd 
shut  themselves  up  in  a  stuffy  room  and  play  silly  old  music 


i 


F  O  N  D  I  E  87 

if  they  could  get  out  of  doors  and  enjoy  themselves?  "He" — 
and  the  pronoun  needed  no  previous  substantive  to  explain  it — 
"he  thinks  I'm  practicing  now" — which  was  scarcely  correct, 
for  the  Vicar  had  by  this  time  descended  from  the  hen-roof, 
finding  all  invocation  of  the  names  of  Blanche  and  Alexis  in 
vain,  and  was  blowing  sighs  of  despondency  through  a  deserted 
vicarage,  with  the  query,  how  was  it  possible  to  expect  a  bless- 
ing on  such  a  home? — "  .  .  .  but  I  aren't.  And  I  don't  in- 
tend to.  Why  should  I  have  to  practice  at  night?  I  was  prac- 
ticing this  morning.  Practicing  only  makes  me  hate  it.  I 
could  stand  the  piano  all  right  if  it  wasn't  for  practice."  She 
gave  a  characteristic  touch  to  her  belt,  slipping  her  thumb 
between  the  leather  and  her  waist,  at  the  same  time  making  a 
circular  and  expansive  movement  with  her  body  as  though 
seeking  escape  from  all  form  of  corporal  and  intellectual  im- 
prisonment. "Well?  Are  you  coming  or  aren't  you?  I 
aren't  going  to  stop  all  night."  And  she  began  to  recede 
slowly  from  Fondie,  step  by  step,  walking  backward,  with  her 
provocative  and  glorious  smile  shining  still  upon  his  face,  like 
a  rich  September  moon,  drumming  on  her  chin  with  the  tubular 
copy  of  Tricky  Topics,  as  though  to  challenge  him:  "You 
dursn't.  You  dursn't.  I  don't  care.  I  can  go  with  myself. 
You  needn't  come  if  you  don't  like.  Some  folks  wouldn't 
want  to  be  asked  twice," 

Fondie  thought  of  his  aunt,  and  he  thought  (great  heaven, 
how  he  thought!)  of  Blanche;  and  he  weighed  duty  in  the 
balance  against  desire,  and  desire  against  duty,  as  Blanche 
slowly  receded.  And  first  duty  weighed  more  than  desire, 
but  with  every  footstep  backward  that  Blanche  took,  desire 
grew  into  a  more  substantial  and  ponderable  thing.  And  the 
Devil  came  close  up  to  Fondie's  elbow,  saying:  "What!  Diz 
thoo  hesitate,  Fondie?  Thy  aunt  will  keep  while  ti-morrow, 
if  need  be.  Blanche  is  worth  a  thousand  aunts.  Is  thoo  boon 
ti  loss  chance  when  thoo's  had  it  gien  thee?  Thoo  can  tell 
thy  aunt  thoo  had  a  job  ti  do  at  last  moment.    Quick!    There's 


88  F  O  N  D  I  E 

another  step  gone  already.  Stop  her!  Say  summat.  Ask 
wheer  she  wants  ti  gan  tl?" 

And  Fondie  asked,  at  the  Devil's  dictation:  "If  I  mud  ven- 
ture ti  ask  question,  Miss  Blanche,  w^heer  is  it  you're  going 
ti?" 

To  which  Miss  Blanche,  ever  receding,  answered: 

"Come  and  see." 

"Thoo's  lost  that!"  said  the  Devil.  "Mek  haste  wi'  thee. 
Ask  her  how  long  she's  boon  ti  be  ?" 

And  Fondie  asked,  as  the  Devil  prompted  him:  "Shall  you 
be  oot  o'  course  long.  Miss  Blanche?" 

"How  do  I  know  ?"  answered  Blanche. 

"Thoo  fool!"  hissed  the  Devil.  "Thoo's  lost  again.  Thoo 
knaws  very  well  she  won't  be  long.  Another  moment  an' 
she'll  have  her  back  tonned,  an'  thoo  wean't  fin'  courage  ti 
follow  then.  Say  thoo  thinks  thoo  can  spare  her  a  few  min- 
utes." 

And  Fondie  said: 

"Nobbut  you  won't  be  si  long,  ]Miss  Blanche,  I  might  mebbe 
spare  you  a  few  minutes." 

"You  can  please  yourself,"  retorted  Blanche,  who  had  in- 
vited Fondie  to  accompany  her  for  no  reason  at  all,  or  for 
little  better  reason  than  that  he  came  conveniently  for  the 
invitation,  and  also,  perhaps,  because  the  sun  lit  up  his  face 
very  pleasantly  and  showed  his  fresh  complexion  and  white 
teeth  and  brown  eyes  to  advantage.  But  there  were  other 
teeth  and  eyes  and  complexions  in  the  world  besides  Fondie's. 
"Nobody's  forcing  you.  You  hadn't  need  unless  you  like." 
With  which  she  reversed  her  rearward  motion,  and  turned  her 
back  upon  Fondie  even  as  the  Devil  had  predicted,  so  that 
Fondie  believed  for  a  moment  she  was  done  with  him,  and  stood 
stock  still,  not  venturing  to  advance  after  such  a  plain  indication 
of  indifference,  and  trying  to  make  his  conscience  believe  that 
he  had  acted  according  to  its  dictates  after  all,  and  had  never 
wavered  in  the  allegiance  he  owed  it,  or  the  respect  due  to  his 


F  O  N  D  I  E  89 

aunt.  But  Blanche  showed  the  big  smile  over  her  shoulder 
once  again  provocatively,  out  of  sheer  self-respect — thinking 
in  turn  that  Fondie  hesitated  whether  to  follow  her  or  not; 
and,  of  course,  if  he  had  not,  It  would  have  been  a  reverse  for 
the  smile — and  the  Devil  pushed  Fondie  by  the  shoulder,  and 
ran  with  him  as  far  as  Blanche's  swinging  hand. 


XXV 

ONCE  abreast  of  Blanche,  however,  the  Devil  deserted 
Fondie  shamelessly,  leaving  him  to  his  own  devices, 
so  that  Fondie  had  hard  work  to  think  of  anything 
in  the  world  to  say,  except  that  it  was  a  dry  summer;  and 
nothing  In  the  world  to  ask,  save  such  questions  as  how  Blanche 
had  left  her  father,  and  did  she  happen  to  have  any  Idea 
what  hymns  the  Vicar  was  likely  to  choose  for  Sunday — ques- 
tions that  Fondie  was  aware  were  too  hopeless  even  to  utter, 
though  they  held  his  mind  at  bay  like  the  fabled  dog  In  the 
manger,  barking  all  Its  more  pertinent  and  serious  thoughts 
away. 

If  Blanche  happened  to  walk  into  the  wheelwright's  yard 
while  Fondle  was  at  work,  and  ask,  "What  are  you  doing  there, 
Fondie?" — as  she  sometimes  did  when  the  moments  dragged — 
Fondle  could  answer  her  with  self-possession  enough  In  his  own 
modest  way,  misdoubting  his  ability  to  explain  this,  or  make 
the  other  clear,  with  more  lucidity  than  Blanche's  butterfly 
Intelligence  always  cared  to  be  bothered  with.  But  when  Fon- 
die found  himself  in  her  company  without  any  substantial 
matter  between  them  to  justify  their  conjunction,  his  tongue 
failed  him,  and  he  sighed  for  the  craft  of  the  quick  thinker. 
And  then,  between  the  pride  that  felt  Itself  so  palpitatingly 
elated  to  be  In  Blanche's  company,  and  the  modesty  that  recog- 
nized Itself  no  fit  associate  for  the  Vicar's  daughter,  the  mere 
physical  act  of  walking  was  changed,  and  Fondie  had  a  curious 


90  FONDIE 

sense  of  practicing  some  new  and  intricate  art  of  locomotion 
in  which,  as  yet,  he  was  most  lamentably  unlearned. 

Nor  was  Blanche  the  most  comfortable  of  companions  for 
unpracticed  modesty  to  walk  with,  for  she  attracted  far  too 
many  eyes.  The  blankest  of  wall-ends  showed  a  forehead  or 
a  pair  of  eyebrows  when  she  passed  by,  and  her  progress  was 
perpetually  signalized  by  curious  vocalisms  and  discreet  whistles' 
from  every  side  of  her,  that  caused  her  to  turn  her  spacious 
smile  this  way  and  that,  or,  without  turning,  wave  the  Tricky 
Topics  in  the  air.  Even  if  the  sound  had  no  visible  source, 
Blanche  knew  infallibly  whose  mouth  had  shaped  it,  and  would 
reply  with  an  acknowledgment  in  kind,  very  like,  but  not  quite 
so  loud,  saying  to  Fondie:  *'It's  So-and-So,  or  So-and-So!" 
and  apostrophizing  the  creator  with  the  utmost  friendliness  as 
Silly  Fool — Silly  Fool  being  merely  Blanche's  synonym  for  lots 
of  things,  including  many  that  were  quite  complimentary  and 
nice.  Some  of  these  signals,  on  the  occasion  in  question,  were 
directly  Inspired  by  Fondie's  presence,  being  intended  to  signify 
that  Fondie  was  going  it,  and  must  not  flatter  himself  that  his 
gallantry  passed  unobserved — for  all  his  modesty  allowed  suffi- 
cient space  between  his  unworthy  self  and  the  Vicar's  daughter 
for  Jarge  Amery  to  push  a  wheelbarrow  through. 

The  old  vicarage,  as  all  who  have  studied  geography  must 
know,  stands  on  the  west  side  of  Whlvvle,  not  farther  from 
the  church  than  a  devout  worshipper  might  reasonably  walk  in 
wet  weather,  and  divided  from  it  by  the  Green  or  Lover's  Lane 
which  blossoms  with  cowslips  in  spring,  and  with  hawthorn 
and  wild  roses  in  summer,  and  brambles  and  tansy  in  autumn, 
and  with  kisses  nearly  all  the  year  round — particularly  by  star- 
light. Both  the  vicarage  and  the  church  are  secluded  in  their 
own  trees.  After  summer  has  once  set  in,  the  church  tower 
is  not  seen  again,  save  by  church-goers,  until  October,  when  the 
northeast  winds — blowing  briny  from  the  North  Sea — strip 
the  yellowing  leaves  from  the  elms  as  ruthlessly  as  Dod's  mother 
plucks  the  feathers  from  poultry  on  a  Thursday  night;  casting 


FONDIE  91 

them  down  by  myriads  upon  the  graves;  and  the  gray  tower 
grows  daily  more  visible  through  the  branches.  One  might 
fancy,  In  June,  that  the  elms  were  so  much  higher  than  the 
church  tower  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  an  ascent  to 
the  leads,  but  when  Blanche  said  "Come  on!"  and  one  came, 
it  was  surprising  what  there  was  to  see.  One  could  see,  indeed, 
the  sea  itself — or  the  light  from  it — in  fine  weather;  a  dozen 
miles  aw^ay,  or  more,  as  the  crow  flies.  And  one  could  see  the 
old  vicarage  slates  and  chimneys,  but  no  windows  (save  in 
autumn).  And  one  could  see  the  fields  too,  and  whosoever 
was  working  in  them  at  the  time,  and  three  parts  of  the  red 
roofs  of  Whivvle. 

It  was  across  the  fields  that  Blanche  and  Fondie  went.  The 
first  was  barley  in  those  days,  which  Fondie  remarked  looked 
like  making  a  nice  crop.  Blanche  plucked  a  head  of  still  green 
barley,  and  after  trying  it  over  her  own  smoothly  rounded 
cheek,  tickled  Fondie's  neighboring  ear  with  the  provocative  and 
titillating  awns.  If  Fondie  had  been  half  a  man,  of  course, 
he  would  have  retaliated  in  kind ;  but  Fondie  suffered  the 
attention  with  the  decorum  and  respect  due  to  the  daughter 
of  the  Vicar,  telling  himself,  "It's  naught  but  Miss  Blanche's 
fun.  She  has  confidence  I  shouldn't  tek  advantage  on  it." 
And  even  when  Blanche  exclaimed,  almost  with  disgust,  "Good- 
ness, Fondie.  Aren't  you  ticklish  at  all?'*  Fondie  merely  said 
he  misdooted  he  wasn't,  and  Blanche  tossed  the  barley  head 
back  to  the  field  it  came  from,  as  though  barley  were  sickening, 
and  she  didn't  care. 

The  second  field  was  wheat,  and  the  third  oats — with  a  nar- 
row flat  of  tares  for  harvest  fodder.  Fondie  helped  Blanche 
punctiliously  over  every  stile  in  turn,  offering  her  a  hand,  and 
bidding  her  take  care — stiles  was  not  ti  trist  (trust)  to.  Tra- 
dition has  it  that  at  each  one  he  shut  his  ej^es  like  a  gentleman 
— without  specifying  which  gentleman — and  that  at  the  last, 
between  the  flat  of  tares  and  the  wurzel  field,  where  the  stile 
was  higher  than  all  the  rest  and  had  a  step  missing,  he  said  he 
7 


92  F  O  N  D  I  E 

misdooted  it  was  no  road  for  a  lady,  and  after  all  they  would 
have  done  better  to  come  round  by  road.  At  which — so  tra- 
dition says — Blanche  exclaimed:  "Oh,  bother!  You  are  a 
silly  fool,  Fondie.  You're  too  slow  for  a  funeral.  I  aren't 
going  to  stop  here  all  night" — and  was  over  by  a  sort  of 
catherine-wheel  movement,  before  Fondie  had  time  to  close  his 
eyes. 

That  is,  of  course,  what  tradition  says.  But  it  is  a  fact  that 
Blanche  did  hesitate  at  this  stile — ^which  is  the  last  one  that 
cannot  be  seen  from  the  roadway,  and  is  grandly  situated  for 
sentiment  and  lovers*  misunderstandings.  And  it  is  a  fact 
that  Fondie  did  remark  it  was  an  awkward  stile,  and  Blanche 
did  say:  "Bother!  How  am  I  to  get  over  this,  Fondie?" — 
as  though  she  had  never  got  over  scores  of  times  before,  with 
and  without  assistance,  and  was  even  now  on  her  way  to  scale 
an  eight-foot  wall.  Had  only  the  Devil  come  to  Fondie's  aid 
and  given  him  a  little  timely  instruction  as  to  the  object  and 
traditional  function  of  stiles,  Blanche  would  have  been  prepared 
to  stay  and  enjoy  Fondie's  company  in  this  appropriate  spot, 
for,  in  truth,  his  face  looked  nicer  than  she  had  known  it  for 
a  long  time,  in  the  reddening  sunlight.  She  did,  indeed,  seat 
herself  on  the  top  rail;  and  she  even  said,  "There's  room  for 
you  too,  Fondie,"  gathering  up  the  outspread  folds  of  her  frock 
to  make  place  for  him  on  the  rail  alongside.  But  Fondie — 
telling  himself  that  she  had  only  invited  him  for  politeness' 
sake,  and  that  it  did  not  beseem  him  to  presume  upon  this  token 
of  her  consideration  and  seat  himself  in  such  intimate  proximity 
to  the  Vicar's  daughter — only  thanked  her  with  his  customary 
modesty  and  said  he  wasn't  tired  and  could  stand  very  well. 
He  was  used  tiv  it. 

So  Blanche  surmounted  the  stile  as  she  had  surmounted  the 
others,  with  no  assistance  beyond  that  extended  by  Fondie's 
correct  right  hand,  and  renounced  all  hope  of  Fondie  for  the 
thousandth  time.  Fondie  was  hopeless.  Fondie  was  sickening. 
One   might   as  w^ll   go   for   a   walk   with    a   wet   umbrella. 


d 


F  O  N  D  I  E  93 

Blanche's  pride  could  not  even  satisfy  itself  whether  Fondie 
cared  for  her  or  not.  Sometimes  she  ascribed  his  studious 
politeness  to  modesty,  at  other  times  to  indifference — of  all 
qualities  the  hardest  to  bear.  But  she  consoled  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  Fondie  Bassiemoor  was  a  silly  fool,  and 
turning  her  thoughts  once  again  into  their  original  channel, 
led  him  with  a  quicker  tread  to  the  home  of  the  newcomers. 


XXVI 

THE  intrepid  Bullocky  had  already  made  reconnaissance 
of  the  outer  walls.  Blanche  and  Fondie  could  hear 
the  sinister  owl-like  signals  that  he  exchanged  with 
his  myrmidons,  as  far  away  as  the  last  field.  These  ceased 
before  they  came  in  sight  of  the  old  house,  and  they  arrived 
to  find  Blanche's  brother  propped  morosely  against  the  brick- 
work of  the  wall  with  his  hands  in  his  corduroy  pockets,  and 
a  scowl  of  unutterable  malignance  on  his  visage — having  at 
length  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Blanche  had  broken  her 
word  and  betrayed  him,  and  that  he  would  have  his  revenge 
on  her  for  this  before  the  night  was  out 

"I'll  mek  oor  lass  knaw  aboot  it!"  he  declared  with  emphasis. 
"I  will  an'  all.  I  knaw  where  she's  gotten  summut  hid — sum- 
mut  particlar.  Summut  she'll  be  wantin*  timorrow.  I'll  shove 
it  i'  pond." 

Blanche's  appearance  in  conjunction  with  Fondie  dispelled 
some  of  the  darkness  on  the  invective  Bullocky 's  brow — or  such 
of  it  as  could  be  removed  without  recourse  to  soap.  Neverthe- 
less he  greeted  her  with  the  scorn  suitable  to  a  malinger, 
saying,  "So  thoo's  come  at  last,"  and  accused  her  of  not 
having  dared  to  come  any  sooner.  "Thoo  nobbut  come  noo,'* 
said  he  with  ingenious  and  perverted  logic,  "because  thoo 
expected  I  was  gone,  an'  thoo  could  say  thoo'd  been  and 
missed  me." 


94  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"I've  come  straight  here,"  answered  Blanche  decisively. 
"Haven't  I,  Fondie?" 

Bullocky,  still  pressing  an  unmollified  posterior  against  the 
wall,  acquiesced  derisively: 

"Aye!  Across  fields!"  as  though  there  existed  something 
very  derogatory  to  courage  In  this  particular  route. 

"Across  fields!"  repeated  Blanche,  with  sarcastic  mimicry 
of  her  brother's  voice.  "Well!  What  If  I  did!  We  were 
walking  all  the  time.  We  didn't  sit  down  once."  There  v.-as 
almost  reproach  in  the  emphasis  with  which  she  affirmed  this. 
"Ask  Fondle." 

"Ask  Fondie  thysen,"  the  Bullocky  rejoined.  "Who  cares 
what  Fondie  says!" 

It  was  quite  true.  Who  cared  what  Fondie  said  ?  Nobody 
cared  what  Fondie  said.  And  yet,  had  Fondie  been  so  minded, 
and  possessed  a  conscience  less  pitted  with  objectionable  scruples, 
he  might  perhaps  have  made  Blanche  care  a  great  deal  for  what 
he  said.  And  certainly  he  could  have  wrung  such  incontinent 
respect  out  of  Blanche's  brother  with  one  hand  as  might  have 
been  heard  a  mile  off  on  a  night  like  this.  However,  this  brief 
prelimlnar}^  had  the  advantage  of  heating  Blanche's  blood  and 
raising  the  temperature  of  her  courage,  without  which  few 
enterprises  Involving  personal  peril  can  be  brought  to  a  tri- 
umphant Issue.  She  cut  short  any  further  public  reproaches 
that  her  brother  might  be  tempted  to  level  at  her,  with  a 
peremptory:  "Well.  I'm  here  now,  anyway.  So  you  can  shut 
up.    Where  do  you  reckon  you  got  over?" 

Blanche's  brother  indicated,  without  speaking,  the  least 
scalable  portion  of  the  wall  with  a  dusty  and  shameless  boot. 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Blanche.     "You  never  did." 

He  Indicated  another  part  of  the  wall,  scarcely  less  formi- 
dable, by  the  same  means — for  he  began  to  have  the  fear  that 
Blanche  would  too  easily  obliterate  the  brilliancy  of  his  own 
achievement  If  he  suffered  the  test  to  be  conducted  on  equal 
terms. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  95 

"Did  he?"  Blanche  asked  the  ring  of  satellites,  and  uttered 
a  triumphant  and  derisive  "Ah!"  when  their  uncertain  silence 
betrayed  his  treachery-.  "Clever!  I  knew  he  didn't.  He 
couldn't.  I  don't  believe  even  Fondie  could.  Where  was  it? 
Was  it  an.vwhere?     Here?" 

Despite  her  brother's  offensive  "Fin*  oot!"  and  his  secret 
admonitory  scowl  that  sought  to  make  accomplices  of  his 
myrmidons,  one  of  their  number — impelled  by  the  magnetism 
of  Blanche's  blue  eye — shook  a  recusant  head  and  pointed  with 
a  surreptitious  finger  to  a  remote  part  of  the  wall,  but  Blanche 
said  she  didn't  care.  "I  aren't  frightened.  This  is  easy  enough 
for  me.     I'll  get  up  here  and  show  him." 

Now  that  the  precise  nature  of  Blanche's  undertaking  became 
explicit,  Fondle  developed  a  grave  and  dissuasive  face.  Being 
no  lawbreaker  in  the  least,  and  never  having  stolen  a  single 
orchard  apple  in  his  life,  the  mere  thought  of  scaling  somebody's 
else  wall  and  trespassing  in  somebody's  else  grounds  troubled 
his  conscience.  Had  the  prospective  trespasser,  indeed,  been 
any  other  than  Blanche  he  would  have  solemnly  misdoubted 
his  ability  to  lend  further  countenance  to  such  illicit  proceedings, 
and  \\X)uld  have  taken  a  mournful  leave  after  the  administration 
of  a  pious  warning.  But  to  desert  Blanche,  or  to  rebuke  her 
publicly,  even  in  the  most  circumlocutory  and  respectful  fashion, 
was  unthinkable.  He  did,  to  be  sure,  try  his  modest  best  to 
dissuade  her  from  this  perilous  enterprise,  hinting  at  its  un- 
suitability  for  a  lady  by  grave  misgivings  as  to  the  height  of 
the  wall  and  the  danger  of  accidents,  but  Blanche  cried  "Bosh  !'* 
to  accidents,  and  "Oh,  shut  up,  Fondie!"  when  Fondie's 
perturbed  lips  invoked  consideration  of  the  Vicar,"  in  a  humble 
voice  lowered  for  Blanche's  ear  alone — "I  don't  want  to  think 
about  him.  I  don't  care.  I  aren't  going  to  go  back  now,  if 
you  think  I  am.  You're  as  sickening  as  father."  She  pushed 
out  the  copy  of  Tricky  Topics  to  the  nearmost  of  BuUocky's 
followers  with  a  brief:  "Take  hold,"  and  going  up  flat  to  the 
w-all,  and  spreading  out  both  hands  against  it  in  a  posture  of 


96  ,      F  O  N  D  I  E 

invocation,  horrified  Fondie  by  suddenly  bidding  him:  "Give 
us  a  leg." 

The  bashful  blood  coursed  up  to  Fondie's  forehead  at  the 
abrupt  demand  upon  his  resourcefulness,  as  It  did  in  church 
when  an  unexpected  Amen  took  him  by  surprise,  and  Bullocky's 
observant  retinue  saw  that  he  was  almost  on  the  brink  of  mis- 
doubting something — as  indeed  he  was.  He  was  misdoubting 
the  propriety  of  Blanche's  ascent  to  such  an  elevation  before 
the  semicircle  of  attentive  eyes  that  watched  her,  and  would 
have  liked  to  bid  the  Bullocky's  myrmidons  retire,  since  they 
displayed  no  tendency  to  practice  this  natural  act  of  politeness 
unprompted.  But  the  leg  was  already  awaiting  him  in  Its 
Hunmouth  stocking,  kicking  demonstratively  In  token  of  im- 
patience, while  Blanche's  mouth  against  the  brickwork  cried, 
"Come  on.  Fondle!  What  are  you  waiting  for?"  and  Fondie 
took  the  shapely  member  In  both  hands  as  reverently  and 
delicately  as  he  could,  without  looking  at  it.  Some  confused 
and  vague,  though  curiously  distinct  and  subtle,  sense — a  swift 
and  newborn  sense  with  which  he  seemed  never  to  have  had 
any  previous  acquaintance — told  him  that  what  his  two  hands 
held  with  a  desperate  endeavor  not  to  translate  to  his  intelli- 
gence by  any  sinful  operation  of  touch,  was  wondrously  sub- 
stantial, smooth,  and  rounded,  and  warmed  with  a  strange  and 
unterrestrial  warmth.  At  the  first  moment  of  contact,  even, 
he  believed  that  the  member  palpitated — but  that,  he  subse- 
quently discovered,  was  his  own  heart. 

"One.  Two.  Three !"  said  Blanche,  and  at  the  third  count 
she  made  a  superb  spring  for  the  coping  of  the  wall.  Fondie 
contributed  all  the  assistance  of  which  his  troubled  propriety 
was  capable,  but  It  cannot  have  been  very  much,  for  after  a 
paroxysm  of  ineffectual  clutching  at  the  summit,  Blanche  came 
down  to  earth  again  to  tell  Fondie  ,that  he  hadn't  given  her 
half  a  leg — which  is  probably  true. 

But  at  the  third  attempt — though  Fondie  would  have  been 
willing  to  accept  the  failure  of  the  other  two  as  a  plain  Indica- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  97 

tion  on  the  part  of  Providence  that  the  enterprise  was  unblessed, 
and  that  the  wall  had  never  been  designed  for  a  lady — the  leg 
did  not  come  down  again.  To  Blanche's  urgent  cry  *Tush!" 
it  went  up  like  a  rocket  as  far  as  Fondie's  outstretched  arm 
could  follow,  kicking,  in  company  with  its  fellow,  a  tattoo  upon 
the  brickwork;  and  when  at  last,  having  received  the  sanction 
of  Blanche's  voice,  Fondie  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  (professing 
at  first  to  be  occupied  in  wiping  his  brow),  the  leg  was  serenely 
swinging  like  a  pendulum  above  him,  and  Blanche's  smile  was 
radiating  triumph  from  the  coping-stone. 

It  was,  as  all  the  spectators  well  remember,  a  glorious  evening 
in  latter  June.  The  sky  was  milk)'-  blue;  the  air  itself  warm 
and  mild  as  milk  new-drawn  from  the  udder ;  the  sun,  wrapped 
already  in  the  brown  mists  of  the  horizon,  as  round  and  red 
as  a  new  penny.  All  above  the  old  house  the  swifts  or  devil- 
squallers  were  wheeling  in  their  joyous  flight,  playing  their 
tireless  games  of  tag  in  the  breezeless  sky.  Thrushes  and  black- 
birds in  noisy  competition  were  pouring  out  their  evensong, 
and  the  undisturbed  fragrance  of  a  thousand  near  and  distant 
blossoms,  of  lilac  and  laburnum  and  the  still-lingering  may, 
rose  up  into  the  warm  air  and  filled  it.  Of  itself  the  evening 
was  beautiful  enough,  but  the  spirit  of  adventure  commingling 
with  its  balmy  loveliness  imparted  to  all  these  sounds  and  scents 
a  curiously  poignant  beauty. 

Blanche,  seated  on  the  coping  of  the  wall  in  a  part  where 
its  glassy  defenses  were  now  too  occasional  and  too  blunt  to 
prove  any  obstacle,  looked  down  on  one  side  of  her  upon  the 
uplifted  faces  of  Fondie  and  her  brother's  company.  On  the 
other  her  gaze  encountered  the  ragged  laurels  and  hollies  that 
constituted  the  outskirts  of  the  old  vicarage  shrubbery,  out  of 
which  rose  the  opaque  trunks  of  the  larger  trees;  beech  and 
sycamore  and  elm.  Over  her  head  a  great  chestnut  spread  its 
leafy  branches  far  out  beyond  the  lane,  affording  such  shelter 
that,  save  in  the  very  wettest  weather,  more  than  half  the  road- 
way nearest  to  the  wall  was  perpetually  dry. 


98  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Of  the  house  Itself  Blanche  was  able  to  discern  little  more 
than  a  mere  vestige  of  its  walls  through  the  thick  green  inter- 
cepting leaves,  enriched  by  the  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun ;  but 
from  her  previous  excursions  she  knew  exactly  in  what  relation 
she  sat  toward  It — although,  to  be  sure,  she  had  always  taken 
the  northeast  passage  before.  Situated  where  she  was,  the 
merit  of  her  brother's  accomplishment  gre\v  upon  her.  Fondie's 
upturned  face  looked  a  long  way  off,  and  strangely  orrilnous  and 
disquieted,  as  though  he  saw  some  peril  invisible  to  Blanche. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  she  might  have  been  open  to  dissuasion,  even 
at  this  late  hour,  from  the  right  quarter ;  but  the  right  quarter 
unfortunately  knew  Its  place  too  well  to  attempt  dissuasion  a 
second  time  in  the  case  of  the  Vicar's  daughter,  and  only  said 
"he  begged  she  would  take  care"  and  "he  wouldn't  like  owt 
ti  happen  her,"  and  the  Bullocky — quick  to  detect  the  transient 
hesitation  behind  Blanche's  changeless  smile,  proclaimed  to  his 
followers:  "She's  funky.  Oor  lass  is  funky.  She  dursn't  lig 
ower  and  let  go." 

"Who  dursn't  !"  retaliated  Blanche,  and  after  that  no  dis- 
suasion from  the  earth  below  or  the  heaven  above  would  have 
moved  her.  Fondle,  disquieted  by  the  accent  of  determination 
in  Blanche's  voice,  made  a  last  attempt  to  appease  the  callings 
of  his  conscience. 

"I  misdoot  you  shouldn't  attempt  it,  Miss  Blanche,"  he  said. 
"Master  Alexis  dizn't  mean  it  i'  arnest.  He  onnly  spoke  i' 
fun." 

Master  Alexis,  showing  fury  in  his  eyes,  demanded :  "What's 
up  wl'  thoo.  Fondle  Bassiemoor  ?    Shut  thy  mouth." 

Fondle  admitted  with  sufficient  humility  to  pacify  a  potentate 
that  It  did  not  beseem  him  to  interfere.  "But  I'se  jealous  I 
oughtn't  ti  stand  by  an'  let  you  do  it.  Miss  Blanche,"  he  said. 

His  choice  of  the  verb  "let"  w^as  perhaps  unfortunate.  The 
Bullocky  demanded:  "WTio's  thoo,  Fondle  Bassiemoor,  ti  say 
thoo'll  'let'  onnybody?  Diz  thoo  think  oor  lass'll  let  hersen 
be  'let'  by  thoo?" 


FONDIE 


99 


And  Blanche  said:  "Oh,  shut  up.  I  aren't  going  to  be  put 
off  now.     Throw  us  your  cap,  Fondie." 

Fondie,  though  with  misgivings  as  to  the  purpose  for  which 
his  headgear  was  required,  as  also  the  complications  in  which 
it  might  be  involved,  threw  it  up  without  demur — apologizing 
for  his  inability  to  offer  it  by  hand,  and  modestly  wishing  it 
had  been  a  better  one,  though  mebbe  it  would  sarve.  Blanche 
caught  it  with  a  hand  made  deft  by  long  practice  in  parrying 
and  administering  blows,  and  after  turning  a  look  of  scorn 
toward  the  contumelious  Bullocky,  and  asking  him  **Who 
dursn't?"  once  again,  flung  Fondie's  week-night  cap  into  the 
shrubbery  with  a  movement  as  decisive  as  it  was  vivacious. 

"There!"  she  cried,  and  showed  her  empty  hands.  "It's 
gone." 

With  that,  before  the  intoxicating  effects  of  the  audacious 
act  could  pass  away  from  the  countenances  that  looked  up  at 
her,  and  were — for  the  nonce—collaborators  in  her  courage, 
she  swung  the  Hunmouth  stockings  boldly  over  the  wall  and 
lowered  herself  from  sight.  The  last  thing  she  noticed  before 
descent  was  Fondie  smoothing  his  hair.  The  last  thing  Fondie 
saw  was  Blanche's  two  hands  with  the  jeweled  fingers  that 
clutched  the  coping;  the  last  thing  but  one,  her  unchangeable 
smile.  Then  the  coping  was  suddenly  fingerless.  Fondie  and 
the  other  witnesses  heard  the  descending  scrape  of  shoes;  and 
in  the  silence  that  ensued  Fondie  heard  (though  none  of  the 
other  witnesses  did)  the  stern  voice  of  his  father  rebuke  him: 

"What!  Thoo  helped  lass  ti  climb  wall,  an'  gied  her  thy 
cap  ti  fling  ower!     Thoo's  as  fond  as  .pudding." 

And  then  he  heard — though  none  of  the  other  witnesses  heard 
it — the  voice  of  Blanche  calling  on  him  by  name,  and  saying 
in  accents  of  suffering  bravely  borne: 

"Fondie  .  .  .  Fondie  ..." 

And  it  came  Into  his  mind:  What  if  she  had  broken  her  leg 
— the  precious  leg  she  had  held  out  for  him,  and  he  had  given 
her,  and  never  looked  at  ? 


loo  F  O  N  D  I  E 


XXVII 


BUT  Blanche  had  not  broken  her  leg.  She  had  not  even 
torn  the  Hunmouth  stocking — though  she  thought  she 
had.  She  had  only  cracked  the  remnants  of  a  marma- 
lade pot,  and  barked  her  knee,  and  the  word  she  uttered  wras 
certainly  not  "Fondie" — which  shows  how  a  zealous  listener 
may  be  misled  by  his  imagination. 

Her  first  act  on  descent — a  descent  signalized  by  the  noisy 
exodus  of  a  startled  and  startling  blackbird  bick-bicking  through 
the  branches  of  a  beech — ^was  to  displace  the  .upper  part  of  the 
Hunmouth  stocking  and  investigate  the  nature  of  her  injury, 
revealing  to  the  hamadryads  of  this  secluded  glade  a  knee  such 
as  an  observant  sculptor  might  have  premised  and  longed  to 
make  imperishable  in  stone.  In  the  luminous  half-light  of  the 
leaf-screened  shrubbery  the  flesh  gleamed  alabaster  white,  but 
in  truth  it  was  kindled  with  that  pale  and  barley-colored  gold 
that  suffused  Blanche's  neck,  and  came  out  on  her  cheeks  in 
the  form  of  finest  down;  blazing  with  final  richness  and  luster 
in  her  hair  and  brows.  On  the  knee  bent  upward  for  inspec- 
tion was  a  graze  of  the  circumference  of  a  five-shilling  piece, 
through  which  the  blood  oozed  as  Blanche  studied  it,  and  suf- 
ficiently painful  to  justify  the  original  comment  passed  upon 
it;  as  also  a  second  of  the  same  species  when  Blanche  saw  the 
justification  of  the  first. 

Then,  having  advanced  the  wounded  member  to  her  lips  and 
taken  a  hasty  lick  at  the  abrasion,  she  drew  up  her  stocking, 
arranged  her  garter,  smoothed  her  frock,  and  possessed  herself 
of  Fondie's  week-night  cap,  w^hich  lay  at  a  despondent  angle 
on  the  ivy  but  a  yard  away.  After  that  she  straightened  her- 
self and  stood  for  a  moment  studying  the  question  of  return. 
Should  she  try  to  climb  back  by  the  route  already  taken,  and 
make  a  triumphant  reappearance  before  the  incredulous  eyes 
of  her  attendants — still  glued,  she  felt  assured,  upon  that  part 


FOND  IE  loi 

of  the  wall  where  her  person  had  last  been  seen ;  or  should  she 
seek  some  easier  place  to  scale;  or  should  she  add  a  brighter 
glory  to  her  achievement  by  some  further,  more  audacious  ex- 
ploration of  the  grounds? 

She  was  still  debating  the  important  matter  when  she  became 
all  at  once  most  startlingly  aware  that  one  of  the  stationary 
objects  accepted  carelessly  by  her  consciousness  for  a  tree- 
trunk  all  this  while  was  in  fact  no  tree-trunk  in  the  least,  but 
a  human  figure  like  her  own,  though  of  the  opposite  sex,  motion- 
less and  observant.  It  stood  but  as  far  again  from  her  as 
Fondie's  cap  had  been,  in  the  thick  of  the  shrubbery  between  a 
half  prostrate  laurel  and  a  golden  holly,  and  must  have  been 
an  attentive  witness  of  her  descent  and  subsequent  operations 
— a  reflection  that  heightened  Blanche's  color  several  degrees 
in  a  moment,  bringing  all  the  latent  gold  into  her  neck,  and 
causing  her  to  say  some  very  personal  things  to  herself,  inside. 
Her  chief  consolation  was  that,  at  least,  they  were  the  Hun- 
mouth  pair.  And  she  consoled  herself:  "What  if  he  did  see? 
It's  his  fault  for  standing  there.  I  don't  care.  I  aren't 
frightened  of  him." 

And  to  prove  that  she  told  herself  the  truth,  she  unfolded 
her  smile  like  a  big  white  flower;  tooth  after  tooth,  until  the 
very  heart  of  it  was  revealed — or  rather,  to  be  exact,  the  smile 
unfolded  itself  spontaneously  and  irresistibly,  so  that  in  the 
twilight  it  gleamed  like  a  great  guelder-rose. 

As  a  rule  Blanche's  smile  was  a  quick  friend-maker.  She 
had  only  to  display  it — for  preference,  sideways,  or  over  her 
shoulder — and  there  seemed  no  end  of  smile  companions  ready 
to  be  sociable  and  beam  their  very  best.  But  the  eyes  fixed 
attentively  upon  it  now,  for  all  they  were  not  unfriendly,  were 
singularly  sober.  They  were  eyes  of  a  deep  and  almost  sor- 
rowful gray,  and  would  look  (Blanche  thought)  quite  nice  in 
the  twilight,  a  little  closer.  The  brows  were  finely  and  evenly 
penciled;  the  mouth  fragile  by  comparison  with  Blanche's 
generous  organ  of  speech  and  coquetry.     In  actual  stature  he 


I02  .   FOND  IE 

was  perhaps  onlj^  slightly  taller  than  the  Vicar's  daughter, 
but  the  slender  habit  of  his  growth  gave  an  effect  of  height 
much  greater,  and  the  fact  that  his  coat  sleeves  were  palpably 
too  short  and  that  some  Inches  of  white  wrist  Intervened  be- 
tween the  hand  and  the  coat  cuff  accentuated  the  general  im- 
pression of  overgrowth.  The  modeling  of  his  face,  moreover, 
was  all  upon  the  bone,  drawing  no  aid  from  that  plump  rein- 
forcement of  flesh  which  lent  Blanche's  countenance  so  much 
of  Its  charm.  As  he  preserved  without  any  change  of  expres- 
sion or  attitude  the  position  of  attentive  spectator  In  which 
Blanche  had  just  discovered  him,  betraying  no  tendency  to 
break  the  silence  or  reciprocate  her  smile  by  ever  so  encourag- 
ingly little,  she  slipped  her  thumb  In  her  belt  and  straightened 
her  body  with  the  familiar  movement,  half  defiant,  half  per- 
suasive, and  volunteered  the  remark  that  he  had  caught  her 
nicely,  and  she  had  never  expected  to  find  anybody  down  there. 

*'Were  you  stood  there  when  I  got  over?"  she  asked  him. 
"Were  you?" 

The  grave  lips  answered,  very  softly,  "Yes.'* 

Blanche  protested:  "Go  on!  You  never  were!  You  hadn't 
need.  I  don't  believe  you!"  and  laughed  a  coy  Lancastrian 
color  once  more,  putting  her  handkerchief  before  the  big  white 
smile  to  show  how  embarrassed  the  smile  felt.  It  was  a  clean 
white  handkerchief  with  a  half-Inch  lace  border — far  cleaner 
than  any  that  the  Vicar  ever  held  to  view  as  an  aid  to  senti- 
mental piety  or  exegesis,  having  been  washed  In  the  bathroom 
only  that  morning,  and  dosed  with  diluted  Clover  Essence 
before  Blanche  left  home.  In  case  anybody  might  want  to  snatch 
It  out  of  her  hand  and  read  the  Initials  In  the  corner:  that 
being  an  accepted  procedure  of  flirtation  in  Blanche's  day. 

But  the  figure  confronting  Blanche  betrayed  not  the  least 
sign  of  Intimacy  with  those  familiar  customs  of  the  country, 
and  seemed  as  Innocent  of  the  etiquette  attaching  to  handker- 
chiefs as  Fondle  himself,  and  as  sparing  of  his  smiles.  He  made 
no  use  at  all  of  Blanche's  splendid  overture,  but  let  it  lapse; 


FONDIE  103 

merely  inquiring,  with  the  impersonal  gravity  of  a  medical 
man,  if  she  had  hurt  her  knee.  He  spoke  a  fragile  porcelain 
variety  of  English  that  to  Blanche's  ear  seemed  almost  too 
delicate  for  daily  use  (like  much  of  the  district  china),  though 
she  found  the  pattern  very  pretty  and  genteel,  and  was  in- 
stantly filled  with  a  desire  to  take  this  voice  up  into  the  belfry 
through  the  two  trap-doors  and  show  it  Whiwle  from  the 
tower  leads.  And  having  now  decided  that  the  voice  pertained 
to  the  Fondie  species,  and  hadn't  anything  "off,"  and  was  un- 
likely to  say  anything  at  all  provocative  of  a  flick  with  the 
scented  handkerchief,  she  reduced  her  smile  to  that  lesser  de- 
gree of  it  that  served  her  for  serious  conversation,  and  asked 
the  figure  what  its  name  was.  The  figure,  after  sufficient 
hesitation  to  make  Blanche  prompt  it  with  a  "Tell  us!  Go  on! 
You  might!"  confided  "Lancelot" — which  Blanche  had  never 
met  with  before  out  of  Storyettes  and  Sunday  Sacreds. 

"Lancelot  what?" 

"Lancelot  .  .  .  Griffith." 

"Griffith? — Is  that  your  surname?" 

The  boy  hesitated  again,  and  Blanche  fancied  his  color 
deepened  as  though  he  stood  on  the  verge  of  some  disinclination 
or  reluctance,  but  she  made  her  voice  very  persuasive,  and  her 
smile  very  beseechful,  and  prompted  him:  "Tell  us!  Go  on! 
You  might!" — and  he  said,  after  a  glance  over  his  shoulder: 

"Lancelot  Griffith  D'Arcy  Mersham." 

"Are  those  all  your  names?" 

"Yes." 

"All  you've  got?" 

The  boy  expressed  a  silent  acquiescence  with  his  lips. 

In  books  Blanche  would  have  treated  all  these  romantic 
names  with  pronounced  sobriety  and  veneration.  But  to  find 
them  in  real  life,  centered  in  one  individual  possessed  of  a  thin 
though  very  kissable  face,  opened  the  throttle  of  her  smile 
again,  out  of  which  Blanche's  most  knowing  and  sceptic  voice 
emerged,   telling  him  to   "Go   on!"   and   "Those  weren't  his 


104  FONDIE 

names!"  and  "What  do  they  call  you?  Tell  us.  You  are  too 
bad!"  But  as  the  gray  eyes  seemed  to  accept  no  credit  for  any 
humorous  trial  of  her  credulity,  she  had  the  grace  to  modify 
this  sagacious  repudiation  by  asking,  VAre  they  really?"  To 
which  the  boy,  without  any  show  of  resentment  for  her  recent 
doubting  of  his  word,  said  "Yes."  After  that  Blanche  eased 
her  curiosity  of  quite  a  number  of  questions.  He  had  been 
here  nearly  a  fortnight,  hadn't  he?  That  was  his  grandfather, 
wasn't  it?  Where  had  they  gone  to  the  other  afternoon? 
Why  did  he  never  come  out?  Why  didn't  he  come  to  church? 
Did  he  ever  go  for  walks  with  himself?     Blanche  did. 

To  some  of  her  questions  Blanche  scarcely  yielded  adequate 
space  for  a  reply,  but  linked  question  to  question  in  strings  of 
half  a  dozen.  To  the  hindmost  of  such  a  string  of  interroga- 
tives  the  boy  would  give,  perhaps,  a  timid,  semi-satisfactory 
answer,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  Blanche  until  later,  and  too 
late,  to  reflect  that  all  the  while  he  spoke  or  listened  to  her 
his  countenance  revealed  a  strained  and  divided  attention,  as 
though  the  finer  and  more  critical  portion  of  his  hearing  were 
occupied  elsewhere.  In  the  absorption  of  their  tete-a-tete,  in- 
deed, Blanche's  conscience  had  lost  all  thought  of  a  bareheaded 
and  disconsolate  Fondle,  gazing  upward  at  the  wall-top  from 
the  lane  beyond,  and  of  the  lurking  terror  of  the  chisel-cold  eye, 
to  which  Mrs.  Marfitt  testified,  and  concerning  whose  potency 
the  Bullocky  had  spoken  in  terms  of  too  utter  disrespect  to 
hide  a  proper  awe.  All  at  once,  however,  the  surprised  dila- 
tion of  the  boy's  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  wall-top  behind 
her,  accompanied  by  a  sound  of  boots  in  desperate  conflict  with 
brickwork,  recalled  Blanche's  thoughts  to  Fondle  and  her 
friends  without,  whilst  Fondie's  own  face,  contorted  almost 
beyond  recognition  in  a  supreme  output  of  muscular  force, 
rose  suddenly  over  the  coping,  to  receive  the  unexpected  greet- 
ing of  Blanche's  mocking  laugh,  destitute  of  the  least  vestige 
of  mercy  for  superfluous  anxieties,  and  be  asked  what  it  wanted. 

The  sight  of  Blanche,  safe  and  sound  and  utterly  uncon- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  los 

cerned,  In  familiar  conversation  with  an  unfamiliar  figure,  took 
away  more  of  Fondle's  breath  than  all  the  scaling  of  the  wall. 
He  blinked  between  apology  and  embarrassment,  pricked  by 
desire  to  explain  the  reason  of  his  impolite  intrusion,  and  the 
conscious  inability  to  do  so,  stammering:  "I'll  ask  your  pardon, 
Miss  Blanche.  ...  I  didn't  mean  ti  .  .  .  si  long  as  you're 
safe.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  Fm  safe!"  Blanche  retorted,  quite  ungrateful 
for  all  Fondle's  solicitude,  and  regardless  of  his  capless  con- 
dition. "What  did  you  think  I  was?  You  are  a  silly  fool, 
Fondle!"  And  she  chose  that  moment  to  burst  out  into 
laughter.  The  laugh  was  ungenerous,  ill-considered,  and  ill- 
timed.  Fondle  saw  the  boy  look  suddenly  over  his  shoulder 
towards  the  house,  and  heard  him  say:  "Hush!  He's  in  the 
garden.  He'll  hear  you!  .  .  ."  and  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment a  larger,  whiter,  more  osseous  hand  than  the  boy's  pushed 
aside  the  branches  of  the  laurel  by  which  he  stood,  and  a  fourth 
figure  was  added  to  the  group,  and  the  cold  chisel-gray  eye 
pierced  the  shrubbery  and  chilled  the  face  of  each  spectator  In 
turn,  one  after  the  other. 

It  looked  at  Lancelot  Griffith  D'Arcy  Mersham,  and  all  four 
names  flagged  before  it  like  cabbage-leaves  in  a  time  of  drought. 
And  it  looked  at  Blanche,  and  Blanche's  smile  remained — but 
only  the  smile:  the  white  teeth  and  outer  integument  of  the 
look  of  laughter,  like  an  oyster-shell  with  the  priceless  pearl 
abstracted.  And  it  looked  at  Fondle.  Fondle  had  been  on 
the  brink  of  apologizing  to  Blanche  for  his  thoughtless  intru- 
sion, and  saying  he  would  wait  for  her  at  the  other  side,  and 
it  didn't  matter  about  his  cap,  she  wasn't  to  trouble  about  it. 
But  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  steel  eye  turned  this  contem- 
plated retirement  into  base  desertion,  and  made  any  departure 
in  this  present  crisis  unthinkable.  So  he  hung  where  he  was, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  coping  and  his  toes  alternately  strug- 
gling for  foothold  against  the  bricks  without,  and  assumed  as 
contrite  and  apologetic  a  look  as  the  posture  (which  was  pre- 


io6  FONDIE 

carious,  and  imposed  a  great  strain  on  the  muscles  of  the  leg 
and  back  and  forearm)   made  possible. 

Many  in  Fondie's  predicament  would  have  professed  their 
inability  to  hold  on,  and  would  have  slipped  down  from  the 
wall,  breathing  on  their  palms  at  the  bottom,  and  showing 
everybody  around  them  how  red  and  sore  these  were.  But 
that  was  not  Fondie's  way — least  of  all  where  Blanche  was 
concerned.  He  never  even  thought  of  the  expedient,  but  clung 
to  Blanche  and  to  the  wall,  as  fond  as  fond,  mutely  trying  to 
draw  away  from  the  Vicar's  daughter  all  the  looks  of  blame 
and  censure  that  the  cold  gray  eyes  emitted,  and  gather  their 
steely  prongs  in  his  own  unworthy  and  inconsiderable  person. 


XXVIII 

THE  new  tenant  of  the  old  house,  and  the  proprietor  of 
those  terrible  gray  eyes,  was — despite  the  stoop  wrought 
by  antiquity  in  his  shoulders — commandingly  tall.  The 
eyes  themselves  were  made  more  formidable  by  brows  that 
seemed  to  embattle  them;  bushy  gray  brows  with  wiry  out- 
works, from  which  the  gaze  issued  as  straight  as  a  lance,  pierc- 
ing and  relentless.  His  head  was  hatless,  like  the  boy's,  and 
like  Fondie's  too;  and  the  thin,  long  white  hairs  upon  it — 
that  did  not  suffice  to  conceal  the  bloodless  whiteness  of  his 
high  forehead  and  domed  skull — seemed  instinct  with  their 
owner's  annoyance,  so  that  each  single  hair  appeared  to  par- 
ticipate in  his  displeasure  and  express  it.  Through  her  recessive 
smile  Blanche  noted  that  his  skin  was  reticulated  with  myriads 
of  minute  lines  and  wrinkles,  crossing  and  recrossing  in  every 
direction;  that  there  were  pouches  beneath  his  eyes — puffy  re- 
ceptacles, it  seemed,  for  wrath;  that  his  nose  was  thin  and 
hatchet-shaped  and  authoritative  and  very  stern ;  that  his  mouth 
trembled — whether  habitually  or  under  stress  of  present  indig- 
nation Blanche  was  unable  to  decide;  and  that  he  wore  old- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  107 

fashioned  garments  and  a  curious  collar.  The  collar  came  only 
halfway  round  his  neck  and  stopped  below  the  ears;  a  high 
sharp-edged  white  collar,  secured  by  a  broad  black  cravat  that 
made  a  big  bow  for  his  Adam's  apple  to  rest  on.  She  did  not 
notice  until  later  that  he  wore  a  check  tweed  suit  with  square 
tails  to  the  coat,  and  spacious  outside  pockets  on  the  skirts;  or 
that  his  tweed  trousers  terminated  in  a  number  of  accordion 
pleats  over  gaiters.  Fondie  saw  that  from  the  first,  because  he 
w^as  much  higher,  and  the  sight  of  these  legislative  and  magis- 
terial appendages,  associated  in  his  mind  with  Members  of 
Parliament  and  Petty  Sessions,  lent  nothing  to  the  peace  of  it. 
He  misdooted  Blanche  had  made  a  grave  mistake,  and  wished 
— with  another  Channel  hiccup  as  one  of  his  boots  failed  him — 
that  he  had  acted  like  a  man  from  the  first  and  forbidden  the 
Vicar's  daughter  to  risk  her  name  and  reputation  in  this  profit- 
less adventure. 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  an  interminable  time  of  scrutiny, 
the  old  man's  voice  was  heard.  Once  upon  a  time  the  voice 
had  been  a  telling  organ  enough,  and  it  was  quite  telling  enough 
even  now  for  most  of  its  present  auditors,  but  it  revealed  the 
ravages  of  age  like  his  shoulders,  and  his  hair  and  collar,  and 
the  rest  of  him.  The  deep  diapason  core  of  the  voice  was 
gone;  only  the  fibrous  investiture  remained,  that  preserved  the 
external  bigness  of  the  old-time  sound  without  the  volume. 

"Who  are  you?"  the  voice  demanded,  and  the  gray  eyes 
fixed  the  Inquiry  upon  Blanche  with  a  look  that  allowed  of  no 
equivocation,  though  Fondie's  heart  yearned  to  take  the  ques- 
tion to  himself  and  say:  "If  he  mud  venture  ti  answer  question 
that  wasn't  addressed  tiv  him,  young  lady  wasn't  si  much  ti 
blame  as  his-sen,  sir." 

Blanche  gave  her  name — the  real  name,  after  all,  and  not 
one  of  the  several  names  she  had  been  composing  during  the 
recent  silence;  deciding  in  the  end  that  such  deception  would 
be  of  no  ultimate  avail,  and  that  her  father  must  inevitably 
come  to  learn  of  her  delinquency. 
8 


io8  FONDIE 

"Blanche  Bellwood,"  she  said.  And  to  herself:  "Silly  old 
fool!  I  don't  care.  I  aren't  frightened  of  you  and  your  nose. 
What  a  collar!" 

Her  reply  made  no  more  impression  upon  the  cold  gray  eye 
than  if  it  had  never  been  given. 

"Who  are  you?"  the  old  gentleman  repeated,  with  the 
peremptorlness  for  a  question  ignored. 

Blanche  conceded  her  name  once  more  in  a  somewhat  higher 
key — albeit  not  too  high,  for  there  is  a  certain  nakedness  about 
the  sound  of  one's  own  name  when  uttered  by  one's  own  lips 
in  times  of  adversity  that  causes  one's  own  ears  to  shrink,  and 
leads  the  lips  to  be  as  considerate  as  possible  in  their  task  of 
inexorable  exposure. 

Again,  with  the  cold  gray  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  the  old  gen- 
tleman repeated  his  stern  formula: 

"Ye'll  'a  ti  speak  .  .  ."  Fondle  began  in  a  congested  whis- 
per— and  would  have  added  "up  tlv  him  a  bit,  Miss  Blanche. 
I  misdoot  aud  gentleman  dizn't  hear  you  ower  well,"  but 
his  foot  failed  him  at  the  crucial  moment,  and  by  the  time 
the  spasm  was  over  Blanche  had  already  spoken,  saying, 
"BLANCHE  BELLWOOD"  in  her  loudest  voice  to  the  steel 
eye,  and  to  herself,  "Is  that  loud  enough  for  you?  How  many 
more  times  do  you  want  me  to  say  it.  Silly  old  fool!  You 
are  a  silly  old  fool.  You're  worse  than  father.  With  your 
black  tie." 

This  time  the  cold  gray  eyes  gave  indication  of  an  intelli- 
gence reached  by  Blanche's  answer. 

"Blanche  who?" 

"BELLWOOD!  I  shan't  say  it  any  more.  Goon!  Stare! 
I  can  stare  back." 

Her  interrogator,  having  elicited  the  name,  concerned  him- 
self no  further  with  It,  but  passed  on  without  comment  to  the 
fresh  inquiry: 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

This  seemed  a  much  more  difficult  question  to  satisfy  than 


F  O  N  D  I  E  109 

the  first.  Even  Fondle  wondered  what  could  be  the  real  reply 
to  it,  but  Blanche  promptly  held  out  his  week-night  cap  and 
said  without  abashment  or  hesitation: 

"Picking  up  this." 

The  old  man,  sharpening  the  look  of  interrogation  in  his 
eyes,  repeated  his  question  as  before,  demanding  more  authori- 
tatively : 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  and  Blanche  repeated  her 
answer  in  a  higher  tone:  "Picking  up  this!"  and  to  herself, 
"It*s  sickening  I"  And  once  more  Fondie's  husky  whisper  ad- 
monished her  from  the  wall:  "You'll  *a  ti  speak  up  tiv  him 
a  bit.  Miss  Blanche!  I  misdoot  .  .  ."  and  would  have  added 
the  rest  if  only  his  boot  would  have  let  him.  The  old  man 
urged  her,  "Eh?"  and  for  the  third  time  Blanche  answered 
him,  extending  the  explanatory  cap  so  far  on  this  occasion  as 
to  look  almost  as  though  she  were  collecting  contributions  for 
a  hospital.  The  green  tweed  headgear  thus  emphasized  caught 
the  cold  gray  eye  and  served  to  distract  the  glance  from 
Blanche's  face.  After  a  prolonged  scrutiny  the  glance  seemed 
to  satisfy  itself  that  this  was  an  article  of  human  wear,  and 
the  voice  demanded: 

"Whose  cap  is  that?" 

At  this,  Fondie's  sense  of  chivalry  would  no  longer  be  denied. 
The  cap  was  his.  Only  craven  cowardice  could  consent  to 
allow  the  Vicar's  daughter  to  be  blamed  for  what  did  not  even 
belong  to  her.  He  hooked  for  better  foothold  with  his  toe, 
and  answered  from  the  wall-top,  "It  belongs  me,  sir,"  at  the 
same  moment  that  Blanche  retorted,  "John  Warkup's  cap" — 
John  Warkup's  name  being  as  good  a  name  to  use  as  any,  to 
serve  a  friend. 

The  conjunctioa  of  the  two  voices  was  not  without  effect 
upon  the  steel-gray  eye.  A  look  of  perplexity  came  into  it,  as 
though  suddenly  aware  of  some  other  and  intrusive  element  in 
the  interview.  It  passed  from  Blanche's  face  to  the  extended 
cap,  and  from  the  cap  to  the  white-faced  boy,  as  though  seek- 


no  FOND  IE 

Ing  the  source  of  the  new  disturbance,  and  from  the  boy  to  the 
wall-top,  and  found  it — as  though  for  the  first  time — in  Fondie, 
on  whose  face  it  concentrated  in  a  gaze  of  stern  and  cumulative 
displeasure. 

"What  business  have  you  up  there?  Eh?  I  say,  what 
business  have  you  up  there?" 

Fondie's  humility  prepared  itself  to  answer:  "I  misdoot 
you'll  say  Tse  not  a  deal  o'  business,  sir.  And  I  wean't  even 
presume  ti  say  I'se  onny,  i'  a  way  o'  speaking.  I'se  humbly 
sorry  ti  be  found  where  I  is,  and  put  you  ti  trouble  o'  rebukin' 
me.  I'se  no  wish  ti  mek  mysen  a  nuisance  ti  onnybody.  But 
I'll  ask  you,  sir,  ti  be  so  good  as  blame  me,  not  young  lady. 
Cap's  mine,  not  hers.     She'd  screen  me  if  she  could,  I  knaw.'* 

But  the  eye  afforded  him  no  chance  for  so  much  as  a  tenth 
part  of  the  explanation.  It  sharpened  to  an  imperative  point 
before  Fondie  could  recover  from  the  convulsion  preparatory 
to  speech — a  convulsion  all  the  more  violent  and  protracted 
through  the  fact  that  one  of  the  brotherhood  beyond,  grown 
impatient  of  Fondie's  obstinate  disregard,  sought  to  attain  the 
summit  of  the  wall,  and  see  what  Fondie  appeared  to  be  en- 
grossed in  seeing,  by  way  of  Fondie's  legs. 

"Get  down  at  once!"  The  command  was  accompanied  by 
a  gesture  of  the  chalk-white  hand  that  forbade  all  altercation. 
"Do  you  hear?  You  have  no  business  on  that  wall.  You  are 
trespassing.     Get  down  at  once!" 

To  abandon  Blanche  now  to  the  wrath  that  his  own  indis- 
cretion had  served  only  to  intensify  seemed  in  Fondie's  mind 
a  dastardly  thing  to  do. 

"I'll  ask  ye,  sir  .  .  ."  he  had  begun,  with  the  desperate 
resolve  to  supplicate  the  latent  mercy  in  the  stern  eye,  but  he 
got  no  further  than  that,  for  the  old  gentleman  broke  in  upon 
him  indignantly: 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me!  I  won't  listen  to  you.  You 
are  on  my  wall,  sir.  Get  down  immediately,  or  I  will  send 
for  the  police." 


FONDIE  111 

He  spoke  of  police  in  the  plural,  though  it  was  only  singular 
in  Whiwle,  as  Fondie  could  have  told  him;  but  even  w^ithout 
this  extra  threat  the  imperative  eye  and  the  dismissive  fore- 
finger were  too  emphatic  to  be  ignored.  He  would  have  liked, 
for  respectfulness*  sake,  to  have  wished  the  old  gentleman 
*'Good  evening,  sir,"  before  retirement,  but  the  hand  and  eye 
forbade.  He  let  himself  subside  from  the  summit  of  the  wall 
without  a  word,  and  without  care.  It  would  have  been  a  small 
consolation  to  his  feelings  if  he  could  have  received  some  pain- 
ful and  visible  injury  in  his  descent,  so  that  he  might  at  least 
enjoy  the  comfort  of  suffering  for  Blanche's  sake,  but  he  fell 
with  all  Jarge  Amery's  Saturday-night  luck,  unhurt,  and  the 
brotherhood  closed  round  him  at  once  to  inquire  the  latest 
intelligence  of  Blanche,  accusing  him:  "Thoo's  a  nice  yan! 
Thoo  couldn't  speak  ti  onnybody  when  thoo  was  atop  o'  yon 
wall.     What's  ago?     Wheer  is  she?" 

Blanche's  brother,  having  cast  off  the  late  attitude  of  morose 
indifference,  was  among  the  inquirers — displaying,  it  must  be 
confessed,  more  exultation  than  concern  to  learn  that  Blanche 
had  fallen  into  the  enemy's  hands.  The  unfraternal  Bullocky 
declared:  "It  sarves  her  reet.  She's  ower  clever.  She  thinks 
she  can  do  owt.  She  shouldn't  'a  said  'What  if  thoo  did!' 
when  I  telt  her  I  *ad  done." 

Fondie  said  sadly:  "I  blame  mysen.  Master  Alick.  Fault's 
mine." 

Bullocky,  astonished  at  this  startling  confession  of  culpa- 
bility, demanded:  "What  way  is  it  yourn?" 

Fondie  answered:  "I'se  oldest.  Master  Alick.  It  would  'a 
shown  better  on  my  part  if  I'd  stopped  her  fro'  climbing  wall." 

''Thoo  stop  our  Blanche?" 

"It  would  'a  been  manlier  o'  me  if  I  had  'a  done.  Master 
Bellwood,"  Fondie  said.  "Even  at  risk  o'  Miss  Blanche's 
displeasure." 

"Thoo  couldn't  'a  done!"  the  Bullocky  decided,  with  a  sud- 
den championship  of  his  sister's  cause.     "Diz  thoo  think  oor 


112  FONDIE 

Blanche  would  tek  onny  notice  o'  thee?  Thoo  knaws  very 
well  she  wouldn't.  Thoo  wouldn't  'a  durst  said  it  if  she'd 
been  stood  there." 

Fondle  did  not  resent  the  charge.  After  all,  It  was  true 
enough.  He  could  do  a  lot  of  noble  and  courageous  things 
when  Blanche  was  not  there  to  see  them.  He  only  answered, 
**Do  you  think  not,  Master  Allck?"  with  his  humble,  inoffen- 
sive voice,  and  made  no  effort  to  assert  his  dignity  or  teach 
the  Vicar's  son  more  serviceable  manners,  but  picked  up  the 
roll  of  music  from  its  resting-place  in  the  grass  at  the  foot  of 
the  wall,  and  stroked  his  hatless  head. 

"There's  one  thing,"  he  reflected,  "which  mayhap  we  may 
have  cause  ti  be  thankful  for.  I  should  think  they  wcan't 
expect  Miss  Blanche  ti  clamber  back  same  road  as  she  went. 
They'll  let  her  oot  by  front  gate." 


XXIX 

MEANWHILE  the  interview  with  Blanche  proceeded 
on  the  far  side  of  the  wall  round  which  the  Bullocky 
and  his  brotherhood  clustered.  For  a  while  after 
Fondle  had  disappeared  submissively  from  sight  the  wrathful 
gray  eye  continued  to  fix  the  spot  that  his  head  had  once  oc- 
cupied In  space,  and  the  stern  forefinger  still  pointed  in  dis- 
missal, as  though  to  provide  against  any  reappearance  on  the 
trespasser's  part;  which  proved  how  little  he  could  have  known 
of  Fondle.  Then  the  imperative  hand  slowly  traveled  down 
again  to  the  old  man's  side,  and  the  steel-gray  e5^e  came  back 
to  Blanche — who  had  during  its  absence  bestowed  a  sagacious, 
though  fruitless,  wink  upon  the  boy — and  looked  at  her  with 
a  new  intensity;  as  though,  in  the  interval,  It  had  almost  lost 
sight  of  her,  and  had  forgotten  why  she  was  here,  or  whose 
cap  it  was  she  held  In  her  hand. 

The  once  keen  look  betrayed  rather  fatigue  and  weariness 


FONDIE  113 

than  anger,  and  had  to  rest  upon  Blanche's  teeth  for  a  moment 
or  two  in  order  to  regain  Its  wrath.  Perhaps  Blanche's  teeth 
helped  to  restore  it  to  indignation,  for  by  anybody  unused  to 
their  native  candor  their  frank  display  might  easily  be  misin- 
terpreted into  a  smile  of  effrontery,  and  the  gray  eye  waxed 
in  sternness  as  it  looked  at  her,  and  the  old  interrogation  began 
anew. 

When  they  had  progressed  once  more  as  far  as  John  War- 
kup's  cap,  the  old  gentleman  asked  Blanche  what  business  she 
had  in  that  garden.  Eh?  What  business — and  cupping  his 
ear,  he  held  it  forward  impressively  to  Blanche,  so  close  that 
she  could  note  the  gray  hirsute  growth  with  which  it  was  elab- 
orated— had  she  in  that  garden? 

As  the  interview  at  this  rate  seemed  likely  to  be  endless,  the 
boy — who  all  the  while  had  stood  motionless  in  the  spot  where 
Blanche  and  the  old  gentleman  had  discovered  him — ventured 
at  last  to  interpret  Blanche's  twice-given  answer  in  his  clear, 
practiced  voice  to  the  imperfect  ear,  saying,  *'She  says  'None,* 
grandfather." 

"Then  why  is  she  here?" 

'Tor  the  cap,  grandfather." 

"Whose  cap?" 

"John  Warkup's  cap." 

"How  did  John  Warkup's  cap  come  into  the  garden?  John 
Warkup's  cap  has  no  business  in  the  garden.  I  won't  have 
John  Warkup's  cap  in  the  garden.  Was  that  John  Warkup 
on  the  wall?" 

"She  says  'No,'  grandfather." 

"Who  was  It?" 

"She  says  she  does  not  know,  grandfather.  She  says  it  was 
a  stranger." 

"A  stranger?  On  my  wall!"  The  old  gentleman  turned 
his  severe  attention  upon  Blanche.  He  would  not  have  strangers 
on  his  wall.  He  would  not  have  caps  in  his  garden.  It  was 
his   garden.      His   property   must   be   respected.      He   sought 


114  FONDIE 

privacy,  and  would  have  it.  He  wished  it  to  be  understood. 
Did  she  hear?  Eh?  \\Tiat?  He  wanted  her  to  understand, 
once  for  all,  he  would  tolerate  no  caps.  No  intrusions.  Did 
she  understand?  Eh?  What?  She  did?  He  demanded  an 
answer.     She  did?" 

Once  more  the  boy  interpreted  Blanche's  answer  to  the  imper- 
fect ear.     "She  says  she  does,  grandfather." 

"She  does?  Eh?  What?"  He  turned  his  eye  upon  Blanche 
again.  "You  do  ?  Well  then  .  .  .  *'  So  long  as  she  understood, 
once  and  for  all,  it  was  enough.  ...  She  was  to  go.  Eh  ? 
What?  He  said  she  was  to  go.  To  take  away  the  cap  and 
go.     "And  don't  let  it  occur  again." 

"Am  I  to  go  back  the  same  way?"  Blanche  asked. 

"Eh?" 

"Am  I  to  go  back  the  same  way?"  Blanche  repeated  in  her 
most  defiant  voice.  ("Silly  old  fool.  You  are  a  silly  old  fool. 
Eh?") 

"I  say  you  are  to  take  your  cap  and  go." 

She  began  once  more:  "Am  I  to  go  back  .  .  ."  and  broke  of? 
with  an  appeal  to  the  boy.  "Tell  him,  will  you?  I  can't 
make  him  hear." 

"She  says  .  .  ."  the  boy  interpreted,  "she  says  is  she  to  go 
back  the  same  way,  grandfather?" 

"The  same  way?    Which  way?" 

"She  says,  is  she  to  go  back  over  the  wall,  grandfather?" 

"Over  the  wall?"  He  looked  at  Blanche  incredulous  of 
what  the  ear  admitted  to  his  hearing.  "Certainly  not.  I  will 
not  allow  anybody  over  the  wall.  I  have  told  you  that  already. 
I  forbid  you  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  wall.  Do  you 
hear?    Eh?    What?" 

Blanche  appealed  to  the  proprietor  of  the  three  romantic 
names  again,  asking:  "How  does  he  mean  me  to  get  out? 
Ask  him,  will  you?    It's  no  use  me  trying." 

The  old  gentleman  intercepted  the  sound  of  a  communication 
addressed  to  other  ears  than  his  own,  and  broke  out  as  before: 


F  O  N  D  I  E  115 

"What?  What  do  you  say?  What  is  she  saying,  Lancelot? 
I  forbid  you  to  talk  to  her.  Take  your  cap  and  go  at  once. 
You  have  no  business  here  at  all.    You  are  trespassing." 

"She  wants  to  know  how  she  is  to  go  out,  grandfather?" 
Lancelot  explained  to  him  in  his  clear  voice — a  voice  to  which 
the  old  gentleman  was  evidently  well  accustomed,  for  he 
never  questioned  it  a  second  time.  "Is  she  to  go  out  by  the 
gate?" 

"The  gate  ?"  The  old  man  looked  at  the  boy  as  though  the 
suggestion  were  too  audacious  to  be  entertained,  and  was  plainly 
on  the  verge  of  dismissing  it  when  the  relevancy  of  the  request 
dawned  upon  his  indignation.  "The  gate  is  locked,"  he  said 
petulantly.  "It  is  always  locked.  You  see  what  trouble  and 
inconvenience  you  are  causing,"  he  added,  addressing  Blanche. 
With  his  gaze  still  fixed  sternly  on  her  rebellious  white  teeth 
he  began  to  grope  in  the  side  pockets  of  his  tail-coat,  one  after 
the  other,  and  produced  as  the  fruit  of  considerable  search  a 
rusty  key — the  same  that  Isaac  Merfitt  had  stared  at,  in  the 
aggregate,  by  the  hour  together. 

"I  will  let  her  out  if  you  like,  grandfather,"  the  boy  volun- 
teered. 

"Certainly  not.  You  are  to  stay  where  you  are.  I  forbid 
you  to  speak  to  her.  I  forbid  you  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
her." 

And  as  the  old  man,  beckoning  with  the  key,  turned  to  lead 
Blanche  out  of  the  shrubbery,  she  detached  the  forget-me-not 
from  her  belt  and  bestowed  it  on  the  boy  in  passing.  It  was 
by  this  time  a  shabby  bunch  of  forget-me-not  to  be  sure,  belt- 
strangled  and  wall-chafed  and  bruised — but  it  came  from 
Blanche,  and  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  and  scores  beside,  would  have 
jumped  at  the  chance  of  it.  The  boy,  however,  did  not  show 
any  marked  alacrity  to  take  what  Blanche  offered  him,  though 
his  fingers  closed  over  it  passively  when  she  pushed  it  into  his 
hand,  whispering:  "Meet  me  some  afternoon.  Go  on.  I  shall 
be  sat  by  pond   tomorrow.     You  can   whistle   of  me   if  you 


ii6  F  O  N  D  I  E 

like.  You're  not  frightened  of  him,  are  you !  Whistle  twice." 
There  was  no  time  to  say  more,  for  the  old  gentleman — either 
with  a  suspicion  of  some  surreptitious  interchange  of  words, 
or  merely  to  see  if  Blanche  had  understood  and  was  following 
his  conductorship — turned  his  head,  and  Blanche  stepped  for- 
ward, adjusting  her  belt.  The  gaitered  feet  moved  slowly,  and 
the  head  and  shoulders  shook  slightly  with  the  concussion  of 
each  step.  Blanche  sustained  her  dignity  on  a  diet  of  "old 
fools"  that  she  kept  articulating  very  nearly  aloud,  with  the 
most  emphatic  formation  of  lip.  Twice  she  pulled  faces  and  put 
out  her  tongue  at  the  venerable  shoulders  in  front  of  her.  And 
once  she  turned  on  her  heel  to  see  if  the  boy  had  come  out  of 
the  shrubbery  to  watch  her  departure.  He  had.  Whereat  she 
showed  her  biggest  smile  and  waved  her  hand,  but  Lancelot 
Griffith  D'Arcy  IVIersham  made  no  response  to  the  signal. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  know  how.  There  is  an  education  in  such 
things.  And  Blanche  had  no  opportunity  to  wave  again,  for 
by  that  time  they  were  by  the  gate,  whose  padlock  the  old 
gentleman  unlocked  at  last. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "the  trouble  you  are  putting  me  to. 
The  gate  is  locked.  It  is  always  locked.  I  wish  to  be  undis- 
turbed." 

Blanche  told  herself,  "I  shan't  call  with  father  now.  I 
don't  care  what  he  says.  He'll  have  to  call  with  himself." 
And  she  hoped,  even  at  the  cost  of  his  immortal  soul,  the  old 
gentleman  would  never  go  to  church. 


XXX 

So  Fondie's  copy  of  Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson's  "Sixty-nine 
Melodious  and  Progressive  Organ  Voluntaries,  Compiled 
for  the  Use  of  Beginners  and  Students  of  this  Esteemed 
Instrument  With  or  Without  Employment  of  the  Pedals,"  that 
Fondie  had  acquired  for  tenpencc  and  a  little  palpitation  at  the 


FONDIE  117 

second-hand  bookstall  in  Hunmouth  Market  (being  told  by 
the  proprietor  that  the  volume  was  scarce,  and  contained  every 
requisite  for  the  equipment  of  a  cathedral  organist)  and  had 
written  his  name  on — not  without  misgiving  when  done,  and 
the  modest  hope  that  folk  wouldn't  misread  the  signature  to 
mean  he  laid  pretension  to  play  them  all — came  to  no  practical 
good  that  night,  and  passers-by  lacked  occasion  to  exhort  him, 
**Go  it,  Fondie!  Let  her  have  it.  Gie  her  a  good  squeezing 
noo  thoo's  gotten  her  i'  corner,"  as  they  were  in  the  gentle 
habit  of  doing.  Fondie's  aunt,  tired  of  fruitless  journeyings  to 
her  gate-end  to  look  for  her  nephew,  put  back  all  the  things  she 
had  displaced  in  preparation  for  his  coming,  one  after  another: 
first  the  crocheted  antimacassar  on  the  harmonium  top,  followed 
by  a  trip  to  the  gate-end  to  see  if  Fondie's  week-night  cap  and 
Sixty-nine  Organ  Voluntaries  were  visible ;  and  then  the  china 
dogs  upon  the  antimacassar,  with  another  journey  to  the  gate- 
end  to  see  whether  such  summary  procedure  had  brought  the 
week-night  cap  and  Sixty-nine  Voluntaries  to  their  senses;  and 
finding  that  it  had  not,  returned  to  the  house  to  put  back  the 
vases  of  nodding  grass  and  dried  honesty  and  straighten  the 
white  window-blind  as  rigid  as  an  upper  lip,  and  stiffen  the 
starched  window-curtains  to  make  them  express  all  the  re- 
proof of  which  a  human  mouth  could  be  capable — so  that  Fon- 
die and  all  Whiwle  might  read  he  was  in  disgrace;  and  re- 
moved the  pieces  of  matting  laid  across  the  carpet  in  the  fair- 
way to  the  harmonium  for  Fondie  to  tread  on ;  and  locked  the 
harmonium  and  the  parlor  door,  breathing  hard  to  give  herself 
the  audible  satisfaction  of  much  trouble  taken  for  folk  without 
the  grace  of  gratitude,  and  assumed  a  countenance  in  fitting  ac- 
cord with  all  these  things,  greeting  her  nephew  when  at  last 
he  came,  with  a  sarcastic: 

"Nay.  It's  never  thoo.  It's  somebody  else.  Thoo's  i'  bed 
by  this  time,  I  knaw!'* 

To  which  Fondie,  contributing  his  mournful  and  transitory 
smile,   misdoubted — "Aye,  he  knew.     He  was  humbly  sorry. 


ii8  FOND  IE 

Time  was  later  than  she  should  be,  by  rights" — though  he  made 
haste  to  assure  his  aunt  that  under  the  circumstances  it  was  not 
his  intention  to  trouble  her  with  any  of  Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson's 
Sixty-nine  Voluntaries  this  evening. 

''Nay,  that  thoo  wean't,"  she  said  decisively,  to  let  him  know 
she  was  under  no  obligation  to  her  nephew's  considerateness 
in  this.  "I'll  watch  it.  Harmonium's  locked  up,  an'  parlor 
an'  all.  An'  door  would  'a  been  locked  beside  in  a  minute. 
Folk  can't  be  expected  ti  watch  oot  o'  people  over  garden  gate 
all  night." 

Fondie  agreed,  contritely  enough,  that  people  hadn't  any 
right  to  expect  folk  to  do  it,  and,  smoothing  down  his  hair  upon 
a  brow  that  much  haste  had  made  conspicuously  humid,  con- 
fessed he  had  intended  to  be  earlier. 

"Aye!  Intended!"  his  aunt  rebuked  him  with  unpleasant 
directness.     "World's  full  o'  folk  that  intended." 

"I  did  set  off  i'  middlin'  good  time,"  Fondie  admitted  in  hurri- 
ble  palliation  of  the  misdemeanor,  and  regretted  the  admis- 
sion too  late,  "But  I  ...  I  was  detained,"  he  added  con- 
tritely. 

"Who  detained  ye?"  his  aunt  asked,  and  though  she  asked 
out  of  mere  feminine  curiosity,  her  eye,  to  Fondie,  assumed  a 
keen  and  scalpel-like  look  that  made  him  smooth  his  hair  more 
actively  and  more  apologetically  than  before.  "Who  detained 
ye?" 

Fondie  was  debating  in  his  own  mind  whether  it  would  be  of 
the  nature  of  a  falsehood  to  say  that  several  folk  had  detained 
him,  and  was  almost  on  the  point  of  thinking  that  it  wouldn't 
— if  only  he  could  persuade  his  organs  of  speech  to  think  the 
same — when  his  aunt  repeated  her  question.  In  repetition  it^ 
sounded  so  much  more  peremptory  than  before  that  Fondie's 
organs  of  speech  could  only  articulate  the  truth,  and  while  the 
inward,  thinking,  or  devilish  part  of  him  (as  he  was  wont  to 
regard  it)  still  formulated  words  of  equivocation,  his  lips  re- 
plied apologetically  that  Miss  Bellwood  had  detained  him.    The 


F  O  N  D  I  E  119 

intelligence  turned  his  aunt's  look  of  inquiry  into  a  gaze  of 
disgust. 

"Yon  lass!"  she  said.  "At  your  age!  I  thought  you'd  'a 
had  more  sense."  And  added  the  terrible  question,  "Where- 
aboots  did  she  detain  ye?" 

Once  more  the  Devil,  speaking  through  Fondie's  spiritual 
organs,  prompted  him  to  say,  "F  my  feythur's  yard.  She  cam' 
aboot  hymns  for  Sunday."  But  his  organs  of  speech  would 
only  articulate  according  to  the  dictates  of  an  absurd  and 
dogmatic  truth,  replying  that  she  had  detained  him  "i'  no 
particular  spot  ti  speak  on,  as  ye  mud  say,  aunt." 

"What?  Ye  mean  you've  been  vvalkin'  oot  wi'  lass?"  his 
aunt  demanded. 

Fondie  strove  to  remove  an  imputation  so  derogatory  to  the 
Vicar's  daughter,  saying: 

"Not  i*  sense  you  mean,  aunt.  I'se  jealous  Miss  Blanche 
w^ould  look  higher  than  syke  as  me.  She  wouldn't  be  very 
well  suited  wi'  idea,  I  misdoot."  To  which  his  aunt,  piqued 
by  this  assumption  of  superiority  in  favor  of  so  infirm  a  goddess, 
retorted  sharply: 

"Why  shouldn't  she  be  suited?  She's  suited  wi'  a  deal  less. 
It's  for  you  ti  be  suited,  not  her."  And  after  telling  her  nephew 
he  ought  to  think  more  of  himself  than  be  seen  in  such  company, 
and  preaching  him  a  lesson  on  what  was  due  to  his  dignity  and 
pride,  reverted  to  the  feminine  part  of  her  nature  once  again, 
and  asked  with  apparent  casualness: 

"Wheer  a'  ye  been,  two  o'  ye?" 

Fondie  answered :  "Not  si  far.    Nobbut  across  fields." 

"Across  fields?    Which  fields?" 

"Why,  I  didn't  tek  that  notice,  aunt.  We  went  by  choch 
field,  an'  cam'  roond  .  .  ."  his  lips  nearly  betrayed  him  with 
the  words  "by  aud  house,"  but  he  steered  them  forcibly  clear 
of  the  danger  and,  skipping  this  perilous  locality  by  a  prodigious 
effort  of  articulation,  completed  the  circuit  with  "  .  .  back 
by  lane-away." 


I20  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Which  lane-away?" 

*'Green  Lane,  aunt." 

"Diz  thoo  mean  Lovers*  Lane?" 

"Why  .  .  .  there's  some  folk  calls  it  that,"  Fondie  confessed 
with  a  blush. 

"Green  Lane !  What !  Has  it  taen  ye  till  noo  ti  walk  round 
there?"  his  aunt  protested,  and  the  peculiarly  feminine  portion 
of  her  asked:  "What  were  ye  doin*  wi'  yoursens  all  while?" 

Fondie,  who  realized  the  difficulty  of  canceling  the  entire 
episode  at  the  aud  hoosc  and  replacing  its  evacuated  space 
with  incident  satisfactory  to  keenly  analytic  inquirers  like  his 
aunt,  misdooted  they  hadn't  been  doin'  a  deal  to  speak  on, 
like. 

"Mebbe  summut  thoo  wouldn't  care  ti  speak  on  at  all,"  his 
aunt  said  sternly,  suppressing  for  the  nonce  the  feminine  por- 
tion of  her. 

"We  didn't  walk  oot  o'  course  fast,"  Fondie  explained. 

"Nay,  I  could  'a  knawn  that  mysen,"  his  aunt  said  grimly. 
"Yon  lass  wouldn't  let  ye."  For  in  her  day  it  was  said  she  had 
not  been  without  discreet  admirers,  and  at  least  twice  had  been 
known  to  look  at  poppies  over  a  cornfield  gate  in  company. 
With  the  acquisition  of  years  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  allegiance 
to  her  sex,  and  held  no  opinion  at  all  (or  worse)  of  the  modern 
young  woman.  And  though  she  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  of 
gates  what  some  extremists  say  of  public  parks,  that  they  are 
a  danger  to  the  j^oung,  she  not  infrequently  wished  them  far 
enough,  and  said  they  were  all  some  lasses  could  think  of.  Her 
mind  turning  by  a  stern  reversion  to  Blanche's  generally  auda- 
cious raiment,  she  asked  Fondie  with  abrupt  severity: 

"What  stockings  had  she  on?" 

The  sudden  question  and  the  associations  it  revived  brought 
the  blood  to  Fondie's  face  in  a  flush  of  recollection  and  embar- 
rassment, taxing  his  refractory  organs  of  speech  to  their  utter- 
most: 

"I  should  be  sorry  ti  think  I'd  taen  onny  notice,  aunt,"  he 


FONDIE  121 

said,  twisting  his  cap.  "A's  sure  [I'm  sure]  I  never  gied  'em 
a  look." 

"Hod  your  noise!"  his  aunt  commanded  him  impatiently. 
^'Don't  try  an'  mek  me  believe.  She  dizn't  put  'em  on  for  syke 
as  me.  They'd  be  yon  last  new  pair,  I'll  awander.  What's 
Vicar  doin'  on  ti  let  her  wear  syke  thinks.  Aud  man's  fond — 
and  thoo's  fond  an'  all,"  she  said,  reverting  to  the  more  con- 
temptuous second  person  singular  for  the  more  complete  ex- 
pression of  her  scorn.  "Come  thy  ways  in  wi'  thee  and  set 
thysen  doon  ti  table.  I'se  no  patience  wi'  thee.  I  thought 
thoo'd  more  sense." 

With  which  she  led  Fondie  into  the  kitchen  and  pointed  him 
to  his  accustomed  chair,  and  put  food  on  his  plate  in  a  manner 
expressive  of  elderly  reproof,  mixing  hospitality  with  censure, 
and  censure  with  feminine  interrogation.  "Cut  thysen  some 
cake.  A  nice  idea  me  spending  every  bit  o'  night  ower  yon  gate, 
expectin'  thee,  an'  thoo  walkin'  oot  parson  lass.  My  wodi 
I  mud  a'  spared  mysen  trouble  an'  all.  What  did  ye  talk  aboot, 
two  o*  ye?  Fine  nonsense,  I'll  be  boon.  Did  thoo  set  her  all 
way  back  ti  vicarage?  My  wod,  thoo  hadn't  need.  What? 
Thoo  didn't.  Why  didn't  thoo?  Where  did  thoo  leave  her, 
then?  Carrier's?  Aye,  I  mud  a*  knawn.  So  she  could  gan 
back  an'  tell  her  feythur  she'd  been  wi'  Ada  all  neet,  an'  him 
fond  enough  ti  believe  it." 


XXXI 

THE  junior  occupant  of  the  old  house  and  proprietor  of 
the  three  romantic  names  did  not  seize  the  first  available 
opportunity  of  accepting  Blanche's  invitation  to  the 
vicarage  pond.  She  sat  there  on  two  consecutive  afternoons  in 
her  blue  print  dress  and  the  patent-leather-tipped  shoes  that  had 
earned  her  father's  disapprobation  as  being  far  too  frivolous  and 
showy  for  a  vicar's  daughter,  plucking  automatically  at  the 


122  F  O  N  D  I  E 

grass  within  reach  as  she  read,  and  biting  as  much  of  it  as 
would  have  served  the  vicarage  pony  for  breakfast.  But  no 
Lancelot  Griffith  D'Arcy  Mersham  came,  and  Blanche  had 
to  make  believe  she  had  never  expected  him  and  didn't  want 
him,  and  had  only  gone  to  the  pond  because  Whivvle  was 
sickening,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  stay  indoors  of  an  afternoon 
to  please  him,  whatever  he  said.  And  she  didn't  care — and 
wasn't  frightened. 

Nevertheless,  the  exploit  at  the  old  house  seemed  to  have 
stirred  its  occupants  from  their  former  seclusion  and  brought 
them  into  the  light  of  day.  The  old  gentleman  and  the  young 
displayed  themselves  to  the  eye  of  Whivvle  on  several  occasions, 
once  beneath  the  broad  noonday  sun,  and  they  even  studied 
Deacon  Smeddy's  bow-shaped  windows  that  protrude  porten- 
tously into  the  main  street  on  each  side  of  the  door. 

From  the  Deacon's  bow-windows  the  newcomers  passed 
slowly  down  the  high  street.  The  old  gentleman,  wearing  a 
gray  high-crowned  hat  that  was  solemnized  with  a  broad  black 
band,  and  the  drab  gaiters  in  which  he  had  appeared  before 
Blanche,  walked  in  the  deeply  meditative  manner  of  old  age. 
He  carried  the  left  hand  behind  his  back,  as  though  for  spinal 
support,  and  his  eyes,  fixed  keenly  upon  the  roadway,  seemed  to 
peruse  matters  of  grave  moment  writ  in  the  Whivvle  dust. 

The  boy,  accommodating  his  footsteps  to  the  pace  of  his  com- 
panion, compensated  for  this  corporeal  idleness  enforced  upon 
him,  by  increased  activity  of  his  eyes.  From  side  to  side  of 
the  High  Street  they  roamed ;  from  the  scoured  doorsteps  to  the 
bedroom  windows,  and  thence  to  the  red  tiles  and  chimneys 
and  down  again.  Last  of  all,  outside  the  wheelwright's  yard, 
he  stayed  his  grandfather  by  the  sleeve  and,  indicating  Fondie's 
masterpiece  in  all  its  splendor  of  gilt  and  shading,  exclaimed: 
"Here  we  are,  grandfather.    This  is  it." 

The  intelligence  aroused  the  old  gentleman  from  his  reverie. 
He  stopped  of  a  sudden  and  asked: 

"What  does  it  say?" 


F  O  N  D  I  E  123 

"It  says:  *J-  Bassiemoor  k  Sox,  Smiths,  Wheelwrights, 
Carpenters^  Agricultural  Implement  Makers,  Under- 
takers ;  and  'etc'  " 

The  sound  of  the  uplifted  voice,  reciting  from  the  signboard 
as  though  the  words  were  a  lesson  in  divinity,  reached  Fondie's 
ears — for  he  was  no  more  than  a  few  paces  distant,  beyond  the 
yard-end,  stooping  with  his  father  and  Smith  Humblesides,  Jun., 
and  Jarge  Amery  (not  that  the  latter  was  party  to  the  work  of 
inspection,  or  even  particularly  welcome  in  the  wheelwright's 
eyes,  having  ignored  all  the  wheelwright's  invitations  to  betake 
himself  elsewhere:  "Has  thoo  no  wark  o'  thy  awn,  but  thoo 
mun  watch  other  people?")  over  a  grass-reaper  that  Smith 
Humbleside,  had  driven  into  the  yard  but  a  few  moments  ago. 

Under  more  propitious  circumstances  he  would  have  greeted 
the  callers  with  a  respectful  good  day,  but  to  do  this — as  things 
were — Fondie  felt  would  have  been  presumptuous  and  vain. 
He  held  the  grease-cup  in  his  hands  and  waited. 


XXXII 

FOR  a  long  while — a  whole  century  in  Fondie's  chronol- 
ogy— the  old  gentleman  gazed  at  him  with  that  keen 
and  penetrative  look  before  which  Fondie's  head  had 
subsided  from  the  wall-top;  and  in  the  gaze  (though  Fondie 
freed  his  eyes  from  it  after  the  first  dread  impact)  its  victim 
read  a  stern  denunciation  growing  toward  speech.  One 
troubled  glance  at  the  young  gentleman,  too,  told  Fondie  that 
his  identity  and  association  with  the  Blanchean  episode  were 
established  beyond  a  doubt.  It  only  needed  another  moment  and 
the  troubled  better  part  in  Fondie's  nature  would  have  acknowl- 
edged its  guilt,  misdooting  that  it  knew,  sadly  too  well,  what 
the  visitors  were  about,  and  he  accepted  the  blame,  and  cap 
had  been  his,  and  it  was  him  and  not  John  Warkup  that  had 
been  fixed  on  wall-top — but  the  old  gentleman  drew  his  hand 
9 


124  FONDIE 

across  his  brow  and  down  over  the  hatchet-shaped  nose,  and 
asked  if  he  understood  pumps. 

The  question  was  so  utterly  unexpected,  and  so  remote  from 
what  Fondie's  tormented  conscience  had  been  prepared,  or  rather 
unprepared,  to  meet,  that  for  a  few  moments  he  had  no  reply 
to  it — the  only  words  in  his  mouth  at  the  time  being  words  of 
humility  and  contrition,  with  which  he  was  as  much  taken  at 
a  disadvantage  as  if  they  had  been  a  mouthful  of  bun.  It  was 
not,  indeed,  until  he  heard  his  parent  apostrophise  his  speech- 
lessness with  subdued  wrath,  "Noo  then!  Canst  speak?  How 
mich  longer  diz  thoo  mean  ti  stand?  Thoo's  gotten  a  tongue. 
Tell  him  aye.  Pumps?  Aye.  Thoo's  fittled  plenty,"  that 
Fondie  was  able  to  swallow  the  obstructive  words  of  repentance 
and  substitute  others  more  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  saying 
he  misdooted  he  couldn't  lay  claim  ti  understand  'em  i'  strict 
way  o'  speaking  (sir),  but  he'd  fittled  up  a  few  i'  village  noo 
and  again — while  Fondie's  father  muttered  in  his  beard  from 
behind  for  the  benefit  of  Fondie's  hearing:  "Pumps?  What's 
thoo  talkin'  aboot?  If  thoo  dizn't  understand  'em  by  this 
time,  who  diz?  Tell  him  thoo  understands 'em.  Diz  thoo  want 
ti  send  onnybody  away?"  And  to  the  twain  that  bore  him 
company  by  the  reaper,  through  the  fibers  of  his  beard:  "Lad's 
fond.  Pumps!  He's  fittled  all  there  is  aboot  spot!  He's 
fittled  scores." 

Fortunately  Fondie's  modest  misgiving  fell  short  of  the  aged 
ear.  The  old  gentleman  sharpened  his  gaze  on  Fondie's  coun- 
tenance to  a  degree  of  keen  and  terrible  identification,  as 
though  next  moment  he  must  inevitably  denounce  him,  but  the 
increased  keenness  of  vision  only  accompanied  the  inquiry: 

"Eh!  What's  that?  What  do  you  say?"  which  encouraged 
the  wheelwright  to  raise  his  voice  in  turn  from  behind,  for 
Fondie's  reproof  and  sharp  instruction,  crying:  "Noo  then! 
Dost  hear?     Say  aye,  thoo  diz  an'  all." 

Such  a  direct  form  of  answer  was  foreign  to  Fondie,  who 
invariably  based  his  assurance  of  all  things  personal  to  himself 


F  O  N  D  I  E  12S 

on  a  pious  doubt;  saying  he  wouldn't  promise  to  mek  owt  like 
a  job  on  it,  but  maybe  there'd  be  no  harm  in  his  trying,  and 
onnyways  he'd  do  his  best  If  they  wished  him  to.  But  prompted 
by  the  parental  WTath,  he  contributed  an  obedient — albeit  spas- 
modic— "Aye,"  to  which,  immediately,  he  added  a  respectful 
"sir,"  and  further  modified  in  accordance  with  the  imperative 
demands  of  his  native  modesty  by  saying,  "I'se  mended  an  odd 
pump  or  two  i'  village,  noo  an'  again,"  and  undid  himself 
by  the  further  supplement,  "Though  maybe  it's  not  what  syke 
a  gentleman  as  yourself  mud  call  mending,  sir,  for  all  pump 
drew  fair  and  well  at  finish." 

Though  the  swordlike  eye  seemed  embedded  to  the  hilt  in 
the  very  substance  of  what  Fondle  said,  and  the  old  gentleman 
appeared  to  make  more  use  of  this  disconcerting  organ  for  aural 
purposes  than  his  ear  itself,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  gathered  much 
from  Fondie's  speech  beyond  the  mere  fact  of  a  general  acquies- 
cence. 

"You  know  where  I  live?"  he  said  abruptly  at  the  conclusion, 
and  Fondie's  blood  came  helter-skelter  up  again  into  his  fore- 
head. Twice  he  twisted  the  workaday  cap  contritely  and  an- 
swered, with  all  the  air  for  a  confession: 

"I  misdoot  I  do,  sir."  But  the  old  gentleman  allowed  no 
opportunity  for  any  more  explicit  repentance.  Gathering  from 
Fondie's  face  that  the  answer  was  in  the  affirmative,  he  asked 
him  when  he  could  undertake  the  work.  "At  once,  eh?  At 
once?" 

"If  my  feythur  could  see  his  way  tl  spare  me,  sir,"  Fondle 
modestly  suggested,  for  he  still  preserved  the  pious  and  filial 
fiction  of  being  an  apprentice  and  subordinate  to  his  father's 
rule. 

"Spare  thee?"  the  wheelwright  muttered  contemptuously  in 
his  beard,  from  the  rear.  "Aye!  An'  welcome!  Thoo's 
lartle  use  at  yam"  [little  use  at  home]. 

Thus  indirectly  assured  of  his  father's  sanction.  Fondle  was 
able  to  express  his  willingness  to  undertake  the  requisite  work 


126  FOND  IE 

at  the  visitor's  convenience,  and  indeed  offered  to  go  then  and 
there  to  the  old  house — a  proposal  that  caused  the  wheelwright 
to  mutter  with  fine  inconsequence,  "Aye !  That's  way  an'  all ! 
When  thoo  knaws  this  reaper's  stood  at  back-side  o'  thee,  and 
'aif  a  dozen  more  jobs  aboot  spot,  waiting  ti  be  done." 

But  the  old  gentleman,  w^hen  he  had  elicited  the  nature  of 
Fondie's  proposal,  shook  his  head  upon  it,  saying,  No,  he  did 
not  wish  that.  The  gate  was  locked.  It  would  be  inconvenient. 
This  afternoon  would  be  more  suitable.  Yes.  This  afternoon 
would  be  more  suitable.    This  afternoon  .  .  . 

With  that  the  glance  concentrated  upon  Fondie,  passed  right 
through  the  back  of  his  head,  through  the  wheelwright,  the 
reaper,  Smith  Humblesjdes,  Jarge  Amery,  and  the  horses  be- 
yond, and  seemed  to  reach  the  extremity  of  space,  where  it 
tranquilized  and  came  to  rest — being  only  disturbed  when  the 
boy,  after  a  sidelong  look  at  the  old  gentleman's  countenance, 
laid  his  finger  on  his  coat  sleeve  and  said  (though  very  gently)  : 
"Grandfather  .  .  ." 

The  old  gentleman  started  sligTitly  with  the  familiar  "Eh? 
What?  What  are  you  saying?"  and  drew  his  hand  awaken- 
ingly  over  his  face,  asking  his  grandson  after  a  moment,  "What 
else  was  there,  Lancelot?" 

The  grandson  gave  first  a  glance  at  Fondie,  then  lowered 
his  eyes,  as  though  applying  his  mind  to  some  task  of  remem- 
brance. 

"Eh?  What?  What  else  was  there?"  the  old  gentleman 
demanded.  "There  was  something  else.  I  know  there  was. 
Something  else  I  meant  to  do.     What  was  it?" 

Again  the  boy  flicked  a  look  through  his  lashes  at  Fondle, 
more  the  impulse  of  a  look,  to  be  sure,  than  the  look  itself. 

The  old  gentleman  readjusted  his  hold  of  the  walking-stick 
and  tapped  the  ground  Impatiently  with  the  end  of  it,  saying, 
"Stupid!  Stupid!  I  can't  trust  my  memory.  I  can't  trust 
my  memory  any  longer,"  when  he  stopped  with  a  sudden  "Ah! 
.  .  .  The  wall.     I  knew  there  was  something.     The  wall!" 


FONDIE  127 

It  seemed  to  Fondie  that  the  young  gentleman's  eyes  sought 
his  for  a  brief  moment  as  though  to  assure  him,  "It  is  not 
my  doing.  I  did  not  tell  him.  He  has  remembered  for  him- 
self." 

"I  want,"  the  old  gentleman  continued,  with  a  resumption 
of  the  dread  sharp  gaze,  ".  .  .  I  want  some  glass  put  on  the 
wall.  Sharp,  broken  glass,  set  in  mortar.  Eh?  You  under- 
stand? It  is  a  high  wall.  ...  I  say  it  is  a  high  wall.  You 
understand?"  Each  time  he  said  "Eh?"  he  did  so  with  the 
apparent  belief  that  Fondie  had  spoken,  and  made  a  renewed 
thrust  at  him  with  the  terrible  swordlike  eye.  "People  are  in 
the  habit  of  climbing  on  it.  Most  tiresome  and  annoying.  I 
say  they  are  in  the  habit  of  climbing  on  it.  There  was  an 
impudent  fellow  the  other  night.  I  won't  allow  it.  I  won't 
submit  to  it.  The  wall  is  meant  for  privacy.  Eh?  I  say  for 
privacy.  I  will  not  have  my  .  .  .  What?  Eh?  Who?  .  .  . 
I  will  not  have  my  privacy  disturbed.  Some  glass  and  mortar. 
Strong,  sharp  glass  and  plenty  of  it,  and  good  thick  mortar. 
You  understand?  Can  you  do  that  for  me?  Eh?  What 
does  he  say,  Lancelot?" 

But  for  the  peremptory  nature  of  the  concluding  inquiry, 
Fondie's  conscience  had  decided  that  there  was  now  nothing 
left  for  an  honest  conscience  but  confession.  He  had  already 
moistened  his  lips  twice  for  the  purpose,  and  got  as  far  as 
**I  misdoot,  sir  ..."  in  his  contritest  voice,  when  the  wheel- 
wright broke  in  upon  his  intention,  saying,  "Thoo  mis- 
doots?  .  .  .  Why,  thoo  diz  nowt  else.  There's  nowt  thoo 
dizzn't  misdoot." 

"I  misdoot,"  Fondie  said,  swallowing  his  original  intention 
with  a  gulp,  "I  misdoot  it's  more  of  a  bricklayer's  job,  sir." 

"And  thoo's  a  bricklayer!"  the  voice  of  the  wheelwright 
reminded  him  fiercely  from  behind,  in  what  the  elder  Bassie- 
moor  deemed  to  be  an  undertone — and  that  served  indeed  all 
practical  purposes  of  an  undertone  so  far  as  the  elder  visitor 
was  concerned.     "Thoo's  as  mich   a  bricklayer  as  onnybody 


128  F  O  N  D  I  E 

else  i'  spot.  Thoo's  as  mich  a  bricklayer  as  Tom  Clegg  when 
he's  sober." 

"Eh?     What  do  you  say?     Can  you  do  it?" 

"Can  thoo  do  it?  Say  aye,  thoo  can.  Thoo'U  'a  ti  do  it," 
the  wheelwright's  voice  commanded  him,  and  Fondie  told  the 
terrible  eye  without  looking  at  it,  that  if  a  roughish  job  mud  be 
acceptable,  he'd  try  and  gie  satisfaction,  adding,  "I'se  jealous 
my  feythur's  ower  mich  confidence  i'  my  ability." 

"Who's  confidence  i'  thy  ability?"  the  implacable  wheel- 
wright growled  from  behind.     "Not  me." 

But  the  old  gentleman's  hearing  caught  no  vestige  of  this 
sinister  by-play,  which  indeed  would  have  eluded  any  but  a 
trained  Whivvle  ear.  Even  Lancelot  Griffith  D'Arcy — though 
conscious  that  some  other  voice  than  Fondie's  was  taking  stem 
part  in  the  proceedings — was  unable  to  discover  the  source  or 
significance  of  it.  He  only  discovered,  at  some  distance  to  the 
rear  of  Fondie's  deferential  face,  a  short,  thick-set  aged  man, 
wrapped  in  the  longest  and  thickest  of  yellow-white  beards  from 
neck  to  knees,  as  though  it  were  an  apron ;  with  a  brown  asterisk 
where  his  mouth  should  be,  and  brows  like  birds'  nests;  who 
stood  with  the  immobility  of  a  tree-stump  on  his  two  stout  legs. 
Nor  did  he  suspect  for  a  moment  that  the  gleaming  ej'es  visible 
beneath  and  partly  through  the  wheelwright's  jutty,  fibrous 
brows  resented  his  magnetic  scrutiny,  and  that  the  voice  of 
undiscoverable  origin  apostrophized  him:  "That's  it.  Stare. 
Aye.  It's  Joe  Bassiemoor.  Tho'U  knaw  him  again  next  time 
thoo  sees  him."  For  so  engrossed  had  he  become  in  the  task  of 
trying  to  trace  the  voice  to  Its  source,  and  to  discover  where 
the  human  identity  of  the  wheelwright  rested — since  every^ 
attempt  to  penetrate  this  portion  of  his  being  was  repulsed  by 
an  impregnable  wall  of  hair — that  he  did  not  notice  at  first  his 
grandfather's  departure,  and  was  still  gazing  at  the  fascinating 
figure  of  the  Whivle  wheelwright  when  the  old  gentleman 
had  already  moved  down  the  yard.  Then,  blushing  confusedly 
to  find  his  attention  rendered  so  manifest,  he  withdrew^  his  eyes 


FOND  IE  129 

with  an  apologetic  start  and  turned  them  hurriedly  to  Fondle, 
saying  "Good  morning."  And  since  Fondie's  gaze  was  at  that 
moment  upon  the  receding  shoulders  of  the  old  gentleman  in 
his  progress  out  of  the  yard,  he  repeated  his  "Good  morning" 
almost  immediately,  as  though  Inviting  a  reply,  and  the  face 
addressed  to  Fondle,  despite  its  shyness,  seemed  very  friendly. 
"Aye!  ...  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Fondle  exclaimed,  grown 
suddenly  aware  of  the  response  expected  of  him.  "Good 
morning,  sir.  I  misdoot  my  manners  had  strayed  a  mawment." 
The  young  gentleman  said  "Good  morning"  again,  to  signify 
cheerful  forgiveness,  and  Fondle  reciprocated  the  compliment — 
which  caused  the  wheelwright  to  ejaculate  sarcastically  through 
his  beard:  "There's  a  deal  o'  good  mornings  knocking  aboot, 
seeming.  It'll  suit  farmers.  Noo  then,  fushn'eed !  How 
mich  longer  diz  thoo  mean  ti  stand  starin'  at  yard-end?" 


XXXIII 

DULY  after  dinner — which,  according  to  custom,  he 
partook  of  In  his  shirt-sleeves;  the  difference  between 
the  seasons  being  marked  by  the  fact  that  in  summer 
the  sleeves  were  rolled  up  from  the  forearm  and  In  winter  not 
— Fondle  presented  himself  before  the  wheelwright  with  his 
work-bass  over  his  shoulder,  and  said: 

"If  there's  nothing  else  ye  want  me  for,  feythur,  I  thought 
I'd  gan  noo.'* 

To  which  the  wheelwright,  whose  memory  was  no  better 
than  other  men's  of  his  own  generation,  said: 

"Wheer  tlv?" 

"TIv  aud  hoose,  feythur,"  Fondle  explained.  "Aboot  yon 
pump.  You'll  maybe  remember  aud  gentleman  comin'  inti 
yard  this  morning." 

"Aye!"  said  the  wheelwright.  "Tho'll  gan  onnjrvvheres 
on'  do  owt  sooner  nor  stop  wheer  wark  is." 


I30  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Why  ..."  said  Fondie,  in  response  to  his  parent's  present 
displeasure,  "I'se  not  tiv  a  few  minutes,  feythur,  if  there's  owt 
I  can  help  ye  wi'." 

The  wheelwright  said  tersely: 

"Gan  thy  ways.'* 

So  Fondie  gave  a  hitch  to  the  bass  and  went  his  ways,  thereby 
meeting  Blanche.  Blanche  does  not  properly  come  into  this 
chapter,  but  it  is  hard  to  exclude  Blanche's  spacious  smile,  which 
brought  him  up  on  his  heel  as  effectually  as  Grindle's  dog  does 
the  postman  now  and  again,  for  all  the  brandishing  of  the 
postman's  stick. 

''Now  don't  forget!"  Blanche  admonished  Fondie.  "If  you 
see  him,  think  on  and  tell  him  I  shall  be  sat  again  pond  while 
three.  No,  while  half-past.  No,  I'll  give  him  while  a  quarter 
to  four.  If  he's  not  there  by  then  I  shall  go  home.  I  shall  go 
home  across  the  fields,  tell  him.  ...  I  was  going  round  to 
church  if  I  hadn't  met  you.  I  promised  somebody  this  morning 
I  would.     I  don't  care.     Let  them  whistle." 

Fondie,  with  his  pained  attenuated  smile,  ventured  modestly 
to  suggest  that  perhaps  if  Miss  Blanche  had  promised  .  .  . 

"Shut  up,  Fondie!"  said  Blanche.  "I  know  what  you're 
going  to  say.  I  shan't.  So  there.  I  didn't  promise  them  faith- 
ful, I  only  promised.  .  .  .  Stop  a  minute.  Give  him  this. 
Say  Blanche  sent  it.  Say  with  her  love.  No,  don't  say  that. 
Yes,  you  can.  No,  don't.  At  least,  you  can  say  just  what  you 
like.     I  don't  care." 

The  "this"  in  question  was  a  sprig  of  candytuft  that  had 
accompanied  a  sanguine  temperament  all  the  way  from  the 
other  side  of  Beeminster  on  a  bicycle,  and  Fondie  took  it  with 
his  customary  misgiving,  saying  he  wouldn't  like  to  gan  so  far 
as  ti  promise,  since  he  wasn't  even  sure  if  he'd  so  much  as  catch 
sight  of  the  young  gentleman. 

"Oh,  shut  up !"  said  Blanche,  with  fine  intolerance.  "That's 
just  like  you,  Fondie.  You  never  want  to  do  anything  I  ask 
j^ou.     You're  as  bad  as  father.     I'd  sooner  ask  him." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  131 

Fondie's  lips  twisted  to  a  strange  shape  with  the  desire  to 
say,  "There's  not  many  things  I  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Miss 
Blanche,"  but  the  articulation  of  this  unpracticed  sentence  was 
more  than  they  could  manage,  and  they  relapsed  upon  the 
more  familiar  and  respectful  formula,  "I'll  try  my  best." 

"That's  what  you  always  say,"  Blanche  charged  him  ungrate- 
fully, her  opulent  smile  being  like  all  other  forms  of  opulence, 
singularly  unmindful  of  past  favors;  and  he  conceded  humbly 
that  his  best,  as  Miss  Blanche  justly  remarked,  was  not  much  to 
boast  of,  but  still  .  .  . 

And  would  have  consigned  the  candytuft  mournfully  to  his 
work-bass  if  Blanche  had  not  deterred  him  in  time. 

"Why  ...  I  thought  maybe  it  would  be  better  oot  o*  sight," 
Fondie  explained.  "Cap  lining  would  a'  been  a  likelier  spot 
for  it,  I  know,  but  it  cam*  inti  my  head  I  mud  'a  ti  lift  cap  ti 
aud  gentleman." 

"Who  cares  for  him!"  Blanche  exclaimed  unceremoniously. 
**I  don't.  He's  a  silly  old  fool.  That's  all  he  is.  Put  it  in 
your  coat  so  as  you  won't  forget  it." 

The  command,  emanating  from  Blanche,  acquired  an  author- 
ity almost  equal  to  the  dictates  of  Fondie's  conscience,  which 
believed  that  a  flower  in  the  buttonhole  was  not  seemly  in  the 
employed,  nor  respectful  to  the  employer,  and  he  was  about 
to  suggest  the  thought  to  Blanche  with  due  deference,  when 
Blanche  said:  "Come  here,  let's  have  you" — and  pulling  him 
toward  her  by  the  coat  with  one  hand,  fitted  the  flower  sum- 
marily in  his  buttonhole  with  the  other. 

"There!  That'll  do.  Now  don't  forget.  I  shall  ask  you 
if  you  did,  next  time  I  see  you." 

The  act  only  took  a  single  moment  to  accomplish,  but  it  left 
Fondie  out  of  breath,  and  he  resumed  his  journey  to  the  old 
house  blowing  sighs  that,  properly  applied,  would  have  filled  a 
collection  of  the  grandest  soap-bubbles.  Only  for  Blanche^s 
sake  would  he  have  breathed  like  that  and  worn  the  white 
candytuft  in  his  coat,  and  it  needed  all  his  loyalty  to  Blanche 


132  F  O  N  D  I  E 

to  make  his  modesty  endure  the  big  white  bridal  rosette  that 
mocked  him.  The  Devil,  indeed,  said,  "Tek  it  oot.  She'll 
niver  know!'*  but  Fondie  answered,  **Would  ye  'a  me  betray 
confidence  Vicar's  daughter's  reposed  i'  me?  It's  coward's 
counsel."  And  he  frustrated  the  Devil's  hand  (which  coin- 
cided with  his  ow^n  left)  when  already  it  had  traveled  as  far 
as  the  buttonhole. 

That  the  old  gentleman's  memory  was  still  active  in  some  of 
its  phases  was  proved  by  the  fact  of  Fondie's  finding  him  at  the 
gate  with  a  spindle  grasped  in  each  hand,  and  his  hatchet  nose 
over  the  top  rail  between  the  cast-iron  fleurs-de-lis  in  an  evident 
attitude  of  expectancy.  The  keen  gray  eye  pierced  Fondie's 
conscience  through  the  bunch  of  candytuft  like  a  rapier,  and 
caused  him  to  realize  sadly  that  the  Devil's  would  have  been 
the  easier  way,  and  that  the  better  qualities  of  conscience  were 
hard  to  practice  and  costly  to  maintain.  As  the  padlock  was 
still  visible  on  the  gate,  Fondie — after  lifting  his  cap  and  expe- 
riencing some  difficulty  in  replacing  it  with  one  hand  (the  other 
being  occupied  with  the  bass),  and  ultimately  holding  it — 
inquired,  in  a  voice  that  his  underrating  modesty  deemed  loud 
enough  to  be  respectful,  if  the  old  gentleman  wished  him  to 
enter  by  the  front  gate. 

"Eh?  The  gate?  Certainly  not.  Can't  you  see  the  gate's 
locked?"  The  old  gentleman  made  an  authoritative  and 
circuitous  gesture  with  one  hand,  and  said,  *'Go  round.  Eh? 
What  do  you  say?     I  say,  go  round." 

This  was  not  a  particularly  auspicious  overture  for  a  self- 
conscious  modesty  with  too  much  candytuft  in  its  button- 
hole, but  Fondie  deepened  the  look  of  respectful  humility  on 
his  face  to  act  as  antidote,  and  went  round  to  the  side-door  in 
the  eight-foot  wall  that  the  old  gentleman's  hand  had  appeared 
to  indicate.  In  the  olden  days,  when  the  vicarage  supported 
two  maid-servants,  this  side-door  was  reputed  to  have  been  a 
bit  of  a  goer,  but  it  had  taken  no  part  in  worldly  affairs,  or  pride 
in  its  personal  appearance,  these  ten  years  past,  being  so  over- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  133 

hung  with  ivy  that  Whivvle  had  almost  forgotten  its  existence 
until  Fondie  recalled  it  to  remembrance  with  his  paint-pot,  and 
lubricated  the  latch  for  Mrs.  Marfitt's  use.  Here,  after  wait- 
ing some  while  listening  to  the  sound  of  a  key  inexpertly  applied, 
the  door  opened  and  the  old  gentleman,  having  first  made  sure 
of  Fondie,  beckoned  him  forward  with  a  curt  crook  of  his  fore- 
finger through  an  opening  just  liberal  enough  to  admit  Fondie 
and  the  work-bass  sideways,  beginning  to  shut  the  door  again 
the  moment  Fondie's  head  showed  through,  with  the  air  of 
one  not  accustomed  to  consider  inferior  conveniences,  and, 
turning  the  key  in  the  lock  once  more,  led  Fondie,  without  a 
word,  to  the  back  regions  of  the  house,  where,  in  the  small 
paved  courtyard  before  the  kitchen  window,  he  pointed  his 
finger  at  the  pump  which  Fondie  knew  full  well  in  coming 
would  be  the  pump  he  had  to  mend. 

"Diz  she  sype,  sir?"  he  asked  respectfully,  standing  in  as 
deferential  a  posture  before  the  pump  as  if  she  had  been  the 
old  gentleman's  daughter,  not  presuming  to  take  any  liberties 
with  her  person  until  requested.  At  the  third  time  of  asking, 
the  old  gentleman  caught  the  word  for  which  Fondie's  vocabu- 
lary held  no  available  equivalent,  and  repeated  "Sype?"  in 
a  voice  of  petulance  and  suspicion. 

"  'Sype'  ?  I  don't  know  what  j'ou  mean.  How  do  I  know 
what  the  matter  is?     Are  you  a  plumber?" 

Fondie  misdooted  he  wasn't  exactly  a  plumber  i'  strict  way 
o*  speaking,  though  he  did  plumbing  jobs  for  a  deal  o'  people. 
But  if  he  might  be  allowed  just  to  try  sweep  [handle]  a  time  or 
two.  .  .  .  Aye!  Sweep  was  fit  ti  pull  him  off  his  legs  (sir). 
He  was  jealous  there  mud  be  foul  air  i'  pipe.  He  wouldn't  like 
ti  say  for  certain  (sir),  but  he  was  jealous  it  was  (sir). 

The  old  gentleman,  lending  a  visage  of  corrugated  intensity 
to  an  explanation  of  which  not  one  word  was  intelligible,  and 
which  might  have  been  (for  anything  his  hearing  told  him  to 
the  contrary)  a  dissertation  on  Confucius  in  Chinese — except 
that  Fondie  held  the  pump-handle  with  one  hand  and  respect- 


134  F  O  N  D  I  E 

fully  pointed  to  some  internal  portion  of  her  anatomy  with  the 
other — brought  the  issue  to  its  essential  by  asking:  "Can  you 
mend  it?     Eh?     What?" 

Without  venturing  to  express  quite  such  a  dogmatic  affirma- 
tion, Fondie  undertook  to  do  the  best  in  his  power  if  that  would 
be  agreeable,  and  the  old  gentleman,  bidding  him  get  to  wx)rk 
and  make  all  the  haste  he  could,  left  him  to  invoke  the  pump 
on  one  knee,  in  an  attitude  suggestive  of  grand  opera  and  high 
tenors,  except  that  Fondie's  instrument  of  declaration  was  a 
screwdriver,  and  not  a  voice. 


XXXIV 

AND  here,  engaged  in  the  work  of  unscrewing  the  pump's 
wooden  casing  with  as  much  delicacy  as  if  it  had  been 
a  corset,  he  was  visited  shortly  afterwards  by  the  boy, 
who  made  his  appearance  noiselessly  at  the  kitchen  door,  and 
had  been  intently  studying  the  nape  of  Fondie's  neck  for  a 
couple  of  minutes  or  more  before  Fondie  awoke  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  looked  at  from  behind.  The  sight  of  the 
young  gentleman,  silent  and  observant  in  the  doorway,  plunged 
him  in  embarrassment,  and  caused  his  ears  to  ring  vio- 
lently with  Blanche's  emphatic  injunction:  "Tell  him.  Don't 
forget.  I  shall  ask  you  if  you  did,  next  time  I  see  you."  But 
he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  cough  politely  and  lay  down  his 
screwdriver,  and  raise  his  week-night  cap  (not  the  cap  he  had 
worn  in  the  yard  this  morning,  but  the  green  tweed  cap  of  the 
evening  before)  and  say,  "Good  afternoon,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman's  response  to  this  was  an  uplifted  fore- 
finger and  a  conspiratorial  "Shhh !"  softly  protracted. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  said  immediately  afterwards,  in  a  voice 
so  discreetly  lowered  as  to  be  first  cousin  to  a  whisper.  "Don't 
talk  loud.  I'm  supposed  not  to  be  here.  I'm  supposed  to  be 
...  to  be  doing  something — working." 


FOND  IE  135 

There  being  no  particular  response  to  this  in  Immediate  view 
on  the  horizon  of  Fondie's  wisdom,  he  sat  back  upon  his  boot- 
heels  and  stropped  the  screwdriver  submissively  on  the  palm 
of  his  left  hand.  It  came  into  his  mind  as  he  sat  there  that  he 
seemed  predestined  to  be  entangled  In  compromises  not  his 
own,  and  that  it  was  hard  to  lead  the  honest  life  and  preserve 
the  purity  of  a  conscience  If  one  yielded  at  the  same  time  to  the 
sin  of  obliging  one's  friends. 

"I'se  ower  weak,"  Fondle  admitted  sorrowfully  to  himself. 
*'I'se  not  tl  trist  to.  Aud  gentleman  mud  pop  roond  corner 
at  onny  minute,  and  then  where  would  my  character  be?" 

And  In  a  desperate  splurge  to  reclaim  a  character  already 
jeopardized  and  lead  the  higher  life  according  to  his  lights,  he 
found  strength  to  take  the  screwdriver  In  the  right  hand  of 
determination  and  tell  the  boy: 

"I  misdoot  ye'd  best  not  convarse  wi'  me,  sir." 

The  modesty  expressed  by  this  counsel  visibly  excited  the 
young  gentleman's  curiosity.  He  examined  Fondle  with  a 
closer  and  more  attentive  interest,  asking  at  length: 

"Why  not?" 

'Tse  jealous  it  dizzn*t  meet  wi'  aud  gentleman's  approval, 
sir,"  Fondle  said. 

The  avowal  brought  a  blush  to  the  young  gentleman's  cheek. 
For  awhile  he  looked  at  Fondie's  countenance  with  eyes  that 
admitted  a  truth  too  stubborn  to  be  denied,  and  then,  without 
making  any  answer,  disappeared  all  at  once  from  the  doorway. 

Fondle  believed  he  had  gone  for  good,  actuated  by  the  sound 
sense  of  the  advice  just  given.  Whereat  the  Devil,  or  Fondie's 
own  conscience  (In  the  humble  twilight  of  Introspection  Fondle 
could  scarce  tell  which,  virtue  and  vice  being  such  perplexing 
and  indistinguishable  twins)  rose  up  immediately  to  upbraid 
him,  and  had  already  said,  "What !  Was  it  thoo  that  promised 
Blanche  Bellwood  thoo'd  do  thy  best?  And  what  did  Vicar's 
daughter  say?  Thoo  didn't  like  it  at  time,  but  what  else  diz 
thoo  desarve?     Thoo  thinks  more  of  thy  character,  that's  as 


136  F  O  N  D  I  E 

bad  as  it  can  be  at  onny  time,  than  thoo  diz  o'  Vicar's  daughter. 
Aye,  thoo's  a  vartuous  yan,  thoo  is,  Fondle  Bassiemoor, 
What'll  thoo  tell  her  when  thoo  meets  her  noo,  an*  all,  and 
she  asks  thee  what  thoo  did  ?" — when  the  young  gentleman 
suddenly  reappeared  at  the  doorway  with  a  look  of  some  exulta- 
tion on  his  face,  and  exclaimed  (though  still  in  a  voice  subdued 
to  caution) : 

''It's  all  right.  He's  on  the  garden  seat.  Perhaps  he  may 
fall  asleep.  Sometimes  he  does  after  lunch.  Now  I  can  watch 
you.     I  want  to  see  how  you  mend  a  pump." 

With  that  he  came  and  stood  close  behind  Fondie,  and  the 
Devil  (or  Fondie's  conscience  again — one  or  the  other)  jogged 
the  elbow  of  the  arm  that  operated  the  screwdriver,  saying: 
*'Noo  then,  Fondie  Bassiemoor!  Diz  thoo  mean  ti  be  a 
man?" 

"Aye,  I  do,"  said  Fondie,  and  after  misdooting  that  there 
would  be  very  little  to  see,  he  took  the  candytuft  from  his  but- 
tonhole and  offered  it  to  the  young  gentleman. 

"I  trust  you  wean't  be  offended,  sir,"  he  supplicated  in  a 
troubled  undertone,  "but  I  promised  somebody  I'd  give  ye  this." 

For  a  moment  the  boy  seemed  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to 
accept  his  unexpected  offering,  then  with  an  exclamation  of 
gratitude  he  hastened  to  take  it  from  Fondie's  hand. 

"How  good  of  you." 

"It's  not  i'  onny  ways  my  own  goodness,  sir,"  Fondie  was 
quick  to  explain.  "You're  very  welcome  for  what  bit  of  sar- 
vice  I'se  done  i'  bringing  it.  And  I  was  to  tell  ye  .  .  ." — his 
voice  proved  a  little  unsteady  beneath  the  strain  of  this  difficult 
and  deliberate  message —  "...  that  somebody  would  be  sat 
waiting  o'  ye  while  half-past  three  this  afternoon,  again  pond. 
I  should  'a  said  while  a  quarter  ti  four.  And  if  you  don't 
chance  to  see  them  by  then,  they'll  be  walking  home  across 
fields,  I  was  to  tell  ye,  sir." 

With  that  he  picked  up  the  screwdriver  again,  and  made 
pretence  to  set  to  work  once  more  out  of  a  delicate  desire  to  be 


I 


FONDIE  137 

no  intrusive  witness  of  any  confusion  that  his  words  might 
cause. 

The  boy,  who  had  soughr  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the 
bunch  of  flagging  candytuft  by  holding  it  alternately  before 
his  e>'es  and  nostrils — not  that  it  had  now  very  much  to  offer 
the  sense  of  either  sight  or  smell — inquired  curiously: 

"Which  pond?" 

"Pond  aback  o'  vicarage,  sir,"  Fondie  answered.  "F  vicar- 
age paddock,  betwixt  vicarage  and  Baulk  Lane." 

"Who  is  'somebody'?" 

"I  thought  maybe,"  Fondie  shyly  insinuated,  "you  mud  be 
aware  who  somebody  was  wi'oot  me  naming  her." 

The  employment  of  the  feminine  pronoun  brought  an  inquir- 
ing light  over  the  boy's  face. 

"Do  you  mean  the  girl  who  climbed  over  the  wall?  After 
John  Warkup's  cap?"  Adding  for  further  identification,  as 
though  any  were  needed,  "With  the  big  teeth?" 

Sobered  by  this  direct  reference  to  Blanche's  person  that  his 
own  lips  held  sacrosanct,  Fondie  misdooted  respectfully  that 
he  had  not  noticed  the  teeth.     The  young  gentleman  insisted: 

"Surely  you  must  have  done.  She  is  smiling  with  them  the 
w^hole  time.     And  her  eyes — they  are  nearly  sky-blue." 

Fondie  answered  humbly,  "Are  they,  sir?"  as  though  the 
grandson  of  the  tenant  of  the  old  house  had  communicated 
some  piece  of  knowledge  to  which  his  own  imperfect  education 
was  a  stranger.  "I'se  scarcelins  presumed  to  notice  what 
color  they  were." 

The  boy  did  not  prosecute  the  subject  of  Blanche's  person 
further  but  said,  after  a  curious  perusal  of  Fondie's  sunburnt 
neck,  "Why  has  she  sent  me  this  flower?"  And  as  Fondie 
delayed  his  answer  in  an  endeavor  to  decide  how  best  Blanche's 
message  might  be  mitigated  and  made  presentable,  the  young 
gentleman  continued:  "She  gave  me  one  the  other  night.  I 
don't  know  why.  I  dropped  it  in  the  shrubbery.  It  was  very 
nearly  dead." 


138  FOND  IE 

Fondie,  having  been  spared  the  first  qualm  of  explanation  in 
regard  to  Miss  Blanche's  conduct,  found  strength  to  surmise 
that  her  act  on  both  occasions  was  one  of  kindness. 

."And  what  does  she  want  me  to  go  to  the  pond  for?"  the 
young  gentleman  demanded.  "She  invited  me  to  go  the  other 
night." 

"I  couldn't  say  for  certain,  sir,"  Fondie  answered  at  length! 
with  fine  discretion.  "Miss  Blanche  didn't  think  ti  tell  me. 
Very  like  she  wishes  ti  convarse  wi'  ye,  sir." 

"What  about?" 

"I  misdoot  I  couldn't  presume  ti  answer  that,  sir,"  Fondie 
(Said.  "Maybe  aboot  a  variety  o'  subjects  agreeable  ti  ye 
both." 

The  young  gentleman  applied  the  bunch  of  candytuft  to  his 
nose  again,  as  though  by  its  aid  to  gain  some  clearer  knowledge 
of  the  identity  and  purpose  of  the  sender. 

"I  can't  go  to  the  pond,"  he  said;  and  Fondle  responded: 

"Indeed,  sir.  You'll  knaw  best  i'  what  w^ay  to  dispose  o* 
your  time."  And  he  found  sufficient  confidence  to  add,  on 
Blanche's  behalf,  "It'll  be  a  disappointment  ti  young  lady,  sir, 
if  I  may  venture  ti  say  so.  She's  very  anxious  ti  mek  your 
acquaintance,  I  knaw." 

"Really?"  There  was  no  doubting  the  interest  in  the  young 
gentleman's  eyes.     "Who  is  she?" 

Fondie  told  him  with  reverence  in  his  voice  that  the  young 
lady  was  the  daughter  of  the  Vicar,  and  was  thought  a  deal  of 
by  everybody  i'  that  part  o'  the  countr}\ 

"What  made  her  climb  over  the  wall?"  asked  the  young 
gentleman. 

A  bewildering  assortment  of  answers  to  this  question  w^as 
displayed  for  Fondie's  choice  by  Conscience,  or  his  obliging 
friend  the  Devil,  these  t\M3  individuals  masquerading  so  freely 
in  each  other's  guise  that  Fondle  had  increasing  difficulty  to 
know  with  which  of  them,  particularly  in  a  crisis,  he  had 
affair. 


I 


FONDIE  139 

"To  fetch  my  cap,  sir,"  he  answered  after  a  pause;  this 
being,  he  remembered,  the  reply  that  Blanche  had  given  to  the 
old  gentleman,  and  no  departure  from  it — for  any  honorable 
man.  Christian  or  unchristian — being  now  possible. 

"But  she  threw  the  cap  over  the  wall  herself!"  the  young 
gentleman  returned.     "I  saw  her." 

The  statement  admitted  of  small  denial. 

"I  beg  ye  wean't  think  onnything  again  her  on  that  account," 
Fondie  besought  his  interlocutor.  "It  wasn't  done  for  badness, 
sir.  It  was  nothing  ni  more  nor  a  bit  of  fun.  She's  a  young 
lady  that  dizn't  always  stop  ti  consider  consequences." 

"How  is  her  leg?"  asked  the  young  gentleman  of  a  sudden. 
So  incredible  a  reference  to  this  proscribed  and  sacred  member 
brought  the  blood  of  embarrassment  to  Fondie's  brow,  and  made 
him  disbelieve  his  own  hearing. 

"Her  what,  sir?"  he  inquired.  "I  misdoot  I  wasn't  paying 
attention  I  should  a*  done,  time  you  was  speaking." 

"Her  leg,"  repeated  the  young  gentleman,  without  the 
least  reflection  or  perception  of  Fondie's  embarrassment — the 
latter  accentuated  by  remembrance  of  his  overnight  discourse 
with  his  aunt. 

"I  didn't  know  anything  was  amiss  with  it,  sir,"  he  answered, 
after  a  pause.  "She  wias  walking  on  it  this  afternoon.  It 
seemed  i'  good  enough  fittle — so  far  as  onnybody  could  judge 
wi'oot  setting  theirscns  oot  ti  tek  notice.  But  maybe  it's 
stockings  you're  alluding  to,  sir." 

"Did  she  hurt  those  too?"  the  young  gentleman  Inquired. 
"She  hurt  her  leg  getting  over  the  wall.  Just  here."  He 
indicated  the  place  on  his  own  knee.  "It  was  all  red  and 
bleeding." 

Fondie  blinked  as  though  smoke  were  In  his  eyes. 

"Fse  sorry  tl  hear  young  lady  happened  anything,"  he  said. 
"But  she  never  mentioned  It  to  me,  sir.  Why,  it's  not  likely 
she  would." 

The  young  gentleman  traveled  an  inquiring  eye  over  Fondle 
10 


140  F  O  N  D  I  E 

for  a  moment  or  tw^o,  as  though  he  were  disposed  to  ask,  "Why 
not?"  but  the  question  that  Fondie  half  apprehended  did  not 
follow.  Instead  he  told  Fondie,  "I  recognized  you  at  once 
this  morning.  I  was  frightened  he  would,  too.  Your  name  is 
John  Warkup,  isn't  it?" 

Fondie,  with  a  sorrowful  smile,  said  he  misdootcd  that  wasn't 
his  proper  name. 

"But  that's  the  cap,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  pointing  at 
It  with  the  candytuft.  "And  she  said  it  was  John  Warkup's 
cap.     Wasn't  it  true  ?" 

"Name's  true  enough,  sir,"  Fondie  answered,  trying  hard  to 
square  Blanche's  mendacity  with  some  standard  of  truth. 
"There  is  a  John  Warkup.  Why,  there's  two  John  Wark- 
ups  as  a  matter  of  fact,  sir.  There's  aud  gentleman  and  all. 
But  neither  on  em's  me,  sir.'* 

"Why  did  she  say  the  cap  was  John  Warkup's?" 

"I  misdoot  she  did  it  to  screen  me  frev  aud  gentleman's 
displeasure,"  Fondie  submitted.  "Not  that  I  desarved  it. 
Fault  was  mine,  not  hers.  But  Miss  Blanche  would  do  onny- 
thing  ti  save  onnybody  fro'  onnything,  sir." 

"Blanche?"  the  young  gentleman  repeated.  "Is  her  name 
really  Blanche?" 

Fondie  hastened  with  visible  relief  to  assure  the  young  gentle- 
man that  there  was  no  equivocation  lurking  behind  this  name. 

"Miss  Blanche  Bellwood,  sir." 

"^And  what's  your  name?"  asked  the  young  gentleman. 

Fondie  answered:  "It's  name  you  read  off  signboard  at 
yard-end  this  morning,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman  asked,  "Bassiemoor  ?"  and  Fondie 
misdooted  that  it  was. 

"J.  Bassiemoor  and  Son  ..."  the  young  gentleman  re- 
cited, with  his  eye  as  though  fixed  on  a  visionary  board.  "I 
suppose  you  are  the  son?" 

Fondie  misdooted  he  was,  though  not  so  good  a  son  as  he 
might  have  wished  to  be. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  141 

"And  the  old  man  with  the  long,  yellow  beard?"  asked  the 
young  gentleman.  "Who  was  that?  Was  that  J.  Bassie- 
MOOR,  your  father?" 

Fondie  said,  "Yes,  sir,"  and  paid  a  filial  tribute  to  his  father's 
virtues.  The  young  gentleman's  chief  admiration  was  directed 
to  J.  Bassiemoor's  beard.  He  inquired  if  Fondie's  initial  was 
also  J,  and  Fondie  informed  him  it  was  E.     "E  for  Enos,  sir." 

"But  folks  generally  calls  me  'Fondie'  in  common  parlance," 
Fondie  said,  to  which  the  young  gentleman  exclaimed: 

"Of  course!  She  said,  'You  are  a  silly  fool,  Fondie,'  the 
other  night,  didn't  she?"  and  after  saying  "Fondie"  to  himself, 
remarked  that  he  preferred  Fondie  to  Enos  as  a  name.  "Fon- 
die's a  nice  name." 

Its  owner  did  not  immediately  make  any  acknowledgment 
of  the  compliment,  but  after  a  pause  misdooted  humbly  that 
it  was  "maybe  not  such  a  nice  name  as  ye  mud  be  inclined  ti 
think,  sir";  and  when  the  young  gentleman  asked,  "Why  not?" 
explained  its  origin.  The  young  gentleman,  undeterred  by  an 
explanation  so  derogatory  to  the  name's  significance,  said  at 
the  conclusion: 

"I  don't  care.     I  like  the  name.     I  think  it's  a  nice  name." 

"It's  not  amiss,  sir,"  Fondie  conceded.  "And  I  isn't  grum- 
bling at  it.  It  sarves  as  well  as  another,  and  I  misdoot  it's  as 
good  as  I'se  warth." 


XXXV 

ALL  this  while  Fondie  was  not  idle.  After  the  first  few 
moments  of  deferential  inactivity,  paid  out  of  respect 
to  the  young  gentleman's  presence,  he  reapplied  himself 
apologetically  to  work,  lending  to  the  young  gentleman  his  ear, 
and  to  the  pump  his  eye,  and  winning  the  young  gentleman's 
admiration  by  the  rapidity  and  precision  of  his  movements. 
Also,  the  conversation  did  not  proceed  strictly  according  to  the 


142  F  O  N  D  I  E 

order  here  described ;  ft  was  punctuated  by  inquiries  on  the 
young  gentleman's  part  as  to  the  use  of  this  tool  or  of  the  other, 
uhich  his  exploring  eye  discovered  in  the  depths  of  Fondie's 
bass,  and  which  his  eager  hand  laid  hold  of  with  a  marked 
degree  of  prehensile  satisfaction.  In  regard  to  all  things  touch- 
ing his  many  crafts,  Fondie's  tongue,  though  it  lost  none  of 
its  modesty,  and  misdooted  its  ability  to  make  the  meaning  of 
a  matter  plain,  acquired  a  curious  faculty  of  elucidation. 
Thus,  he  explained  the  principle  and  practice  of  pumps,  the 
fashion  and  utility  of  valves;  and  the  young  gentleman  listened 
to  Fondie's  modest  dissertation  on  these  things,  hidden  and 
intricate,  with  a  delicate  and  slightly  open  mouth — not  so  far 
open,  to  be  sure,  as  to  hint  at  a  wandering  intelligence,  but  to 
express  a  very  present  and  admiring  one ;  saying  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  Fondie's  exegesis:  "What  a  lot  of  things  you  know!" 
and  betraying  even  amusement  at  Fondie's  humble,  heartfelt 
disclaimer:  "I  misdoot  it's  nought  by  comparison  wi'  things  I 
don't  know,  sir." 

Before  his  wondering  eyes  Fondie  uncoupled  the  sweep  from 
the  plunger-rod,  and  was  about  to  unveil  the  absorbing  mys- 
teries of  the  pump-barrel,  having  removed  all  the  copper  bolts 
but  one,  when  he  became  suddenly  conscious  of  light  and  space 
where  the  young  gentleman's  head  had  been,  and,  looking 
round  to  discover  the  cause  of  it,  met  the  glance  of  the  old 
gentleman,  which  his  own  glance  dropped  as  promptly  as  his 
hand  would  have  dropped  a  red-hot  poker.  The  eye,  after 
seeming  to  challenge  Fondie's,  rested  with  terrible  intentness 
on  the  buttonhole  of  Fondie's  coat,  devoid  now  of  the  floral 
decoration  that  had  been  so  conspicuous  a  part  of  it;  and  for 
some  moments  Fondie  held  an  anxious  colloquy  with  the  Devil. 
This  time  Fondie  felt  sure  it  was  the  Devil  and  not  his  own 
conscience,  because  the  Devil  gave  such  unanswerable  advice. 
"You  can't  betray  the  Vicar's  daughter,"  said  the  Devil;  "nor 
you  can't  betray  your  employer's  grandson.  If  he  asks  'What's 
got  it?'  say  'What's  got  what,  sir?'    And  if  he  says  'Flowers,' 


F  O  N  D  I  E  143 

say  'What  flowers?'  And  If  he  says  T  your  buttonhole  .  .  .' 
say  *I  humbly  misdoot  you're  mistaen,  sir.  Fse  not  i'  habit  o' 
wearing  flowers  i'  my  buttonhole  at  onny  time.'  " 

But  no  such  catechism  put  Fondie's  virtue  to  the  test,  and 
he  was  nearly  able  to  make  his  conscience  believe  that  he  would 
have  spoken  the  truth  had  it  been  demanded  of  him.  After 
scrutinizing  the  work  and  asking  if  it  were  not  yet  done,  and 
thrusting  his  eye  through  Fondic  and  the  pump  in  several 
places,  he  bade  Fondie  follow  him  once  more,  and  preceded 
the  very  cap  that  Blanche  had  held  out  for  his  inspection  to 
the  very  spot  where  it  had  been  thrown  over  the  wall,  there 
explaining  anew  his  grievances  and  his  requirements.  And  the 
Devil  in  Fondie  was  so  touched  to  be  made  the  recipient  of 
confidences  grossly  undeserved  that  he  fell,  and  tempted  Fondie 
to  fall  with  him,  saying:  "Tell  him!  Tell  him!  Tell  him 
now.  Before  it  is  too  late."  To  which  Conscience  objected: 
"For  shame!  Think  o'  your  father!  Think  what's  owing  tiv 
his  gray  hairs."  But  the  Devil  was  so  insistent  and  spoke  with 
so  loud  a  voice  that  Fondie  trod  Conscience  and  his  father  and 
the  respect  due  to  his  parent's  gray  hairs  underfoot,  and  a 
voice  came  out  of  the  lowermost  depths  of  his  stomach,  declar- 
ing: "I  misdoot,  sir,  there's  something  I  ought  ti  acquaint  you 
with.  It  was  me,  sir,  you  ordered  doon  fro'  top  o'  wall  yon 
night.  I  shouldn't  like  ti  tek  advantage  o'  your  confidence  i' 
onny  way,  sir." 

The  voice,  being  diabolically  inspired,  was,  of  course,  far 
more  Intelligible  than  any  conscientious  voice  of  purely  human 
origin  could  be.  It  reached  the  old  gentleman's  ear,  and  pierced 
his  understanding  with  the  directness  of  an  arrow  shot  at  a 
mark. 

"Now,"  said  Conscience,  in  the  stillness  that  followed, 
"thoo's  done  it!  Mek  ready  to  pack  thy  bass  and  gan  thy 
ways,  for  he'll  order  thee  off  place  and  bid  thee  ne'er  come 
gain  hand  it  onny  more." 

And  even  the  Devil,  shocked  at  his  own  audacity,  was  dumb. 


144  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  that?"  It  was  a  stern  voice  that 
asked  the  question. 

"I  misdoot  it's  only  fair  ti  let  you  know,  sir,"  Fondie  an- 
swered. "John  Warkup's  i'  no  way  to  blame,  sir.  Cap  was 
mine,  sir;  not  his.  I  should  be  sorry  ti  enjoy  onnybody's  con- 
fidence that  I  hadn't  desarved." 

"Is  that  your  only  reason  for  telling  me  this?    Eh?.  What?'* 

Fondie  answered:  "I  hope  so,  sir." 

He  answered  "I  hope  so"  because  the  emphatic  affirmative 
seemed  false  according  to  the  canons  of  protesting  Conscience. 
Even  as  he  eased  his  bosom  of  the  disquieting  burden.  Con- 
science rose  up  and  reproached  him,  saying  in  its  most  con- 
temptuous and  scathing  vernacular:  "Aye!  Thoo's  a  truthful 
one,  thoo  is,  Fondie  Bassiemoor!  Thoo  dizzn't  want  ti  enjoy 
onnybody's  confidence  that  thoo  hasn't  desarved.  Tell  aud 
gentleman  aboot  sprig  o'  candytuft  thoo's  gien  his  grandson, 
and  talk  thoo's  had  wi*  young  gentleman  i*  kitchen-yard,  an' 
message  thoo  gied  him  fro'  Vicar's  daughter.  Tell  aud  gen- 
tleman that  an'  all.     Half  truth's  nea  better  than  a  lie." 

By  the  light  of  this  terrible  and  ruthless  exposure,  Fondie 
hoped  that  the  old  gentleman  would  bid  him  "Take  your  bass 
and  go.  Eh?  What?  I  say,  take  your  bass  and  go."  But 
the  eye,  instead  of  growing  in  severity,  to  Fondie's  surprise 
and  to  his  Conscience'  regret,  visibly  relaxed.  Little  creases 
multiplied  all  round  it,  that  seemed  to  be  the  minute  con- 
stituents and  molecules  of  a  smile.  The  lips  even  came  apart, 
and  offered  the  momentary  sight  of  teeth  remarkably  well  pre- 
served. The  voice,  when  it  made  itself  heard  at  last,  pro- 
nounced nothing  more  dreadful  than,  "You  seem  an  honest 
fellow.  If  you  hadn't  told  me,  I  should  never  have  known. 
Make  the  wall-top  so  sharp  that  you're  not  tempted  to  sit  on 
it  again.  Eh?  What?  I  say,  make  the  wall-top  so  sharp 
that  you're  not  tempted  to  sit  on  it  again.  Can  I  rely  on  you? 
Eh?     What?" 

Fondie   said,    almost   with    fervor,    that   he   hoped    the   old 


FONDIE  145 

gentleman  could.  The  smile  faded,  and  Fondle  was  dismissed 
back  to  the  pump  with  a  brief  gesture.  Both  pump  and  wall 
were  completed  on  Fondie's  part  without  any  further  sight 
of  the  bov. 


XXXVI 

THE  conception  of  Saturday  as  a  day  of  semi-rest  for 
wheelwrights  and  the  sons  of  wheelwrights  was  still  in 
its  Infancy,  being  by  Fondie's  parent  regarded  with  as 
stern  an  eye  as  all  other  childhood.  Ideas  have  this  In  com- 
mon with  men,  that  they  are  rebellious  in  youth  and  tyrannous 
In  old  age;  possessing,  like  humanity,  the  desire  to  live  for- 
ever and  to  be  respected — after  their  period  of  utility  Is  over — 
for  their  gray  hairs. 

So  society  suffers  the  Incubus  of  a  host  of  superannuated 
concepts  that  cry  "Hush!"  and  "Hod  thy  noise,"  as  Fondie's 
father  would  silence  a  disputatlve  bairn,  and  by  reason  of  their 
antiquity  are  obeyed,  albeit  with  the  secret  tongue  put  out  at 
them  by  rebels  like  Blanche.  Never  having  enjoyed  a  day's 
Illness  or  a  day's  holiday  In  his  life,  Joe  Bassiemoor  denied 
these  privileges  to  a  younger  generation,  and  would  as  soon 
have  given  sympathy  to  sufferers  as  ha'pence  to  a  tramp;  sick- 
ness and  pleasure  being  but  modes  of  indolence,  which  was  the 
only  disease  the  ruthless  wheelwright  acknowledged. 

"Headache!"  he  would  exclaim.  "What's  that?  There  was 
no  syke  things  as  headache  I'  my  days!"  His  cure  for  It  was 
"wark,"  or  "a  good  crack  across  lugs." 

Nevertheless,  the  decadent  spirit  of  the  age,  by  avoiding  the 
wheelwright's  yard  and  shop  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  com- 
pelled him  to  respect  In  practice  the  holiday  that  he  denounced 
In  theory,  and  left  him  little  to  do  but  move  about  the  yard 
among  the  deserted  shavings,  saying  he  couldn't  get  away; 
not  him;  and  if  other  folk  had  his  wark  to  do  they'd  stop  at 


146  F  O  N  D  I  E 

yam.  Yet  he  chid  those  dients  who  brought  grist  to  the  mill 
on  Saturday  afternoon  by  asking  them  if  there .  wasn't  other 
days  i'  the  week  beside  this,  when  they  knew  him  to  be 
shorthanded ;  and  rebuked  equally  those  who  delayed  the  neces- 
sary job  till  Monday  on  the  plea  that  they  had  thought  "thoo 
wadn't  be  working,  Joe,"  by  the  stern  Inquiry:  "When  did 
thoo  knaw  me  to  do  awt  else?  Nobbut  thoo'd  had  a  bit  o* 
sensQ  thoo'd  'a  brought  job  o'  Saturday  when  I  wasn't  so 
throng." 

On  the  Saturday  succeeding  his  call  to  the  old  house  Fondle 
decided  to  spend  a  peaceful  afternoon  at  the  organ  and  im- 
prove his  mind. 

For  the  playing  of  church  organs  the  day  was  perfect.  The 
sky  was  blue,  the  sunlight  rich  as  honey;  the  blackbirds'  voices 
turned  to  syrup  as  they  sang,  dropping  with  thick  and  sleepy 
sweetness  from  the  trees  and  hedge-tops.  In  its  tree-cinctured 
hollow  the  church  rippled  with  the  hot  and  fragrant  evapora- 
tion from  the  ripening  grass  that  rose  up  nearly  to  its  windows, 
and  hid  all  but  the  higher  tombstones  in  an  untidy  sea  of  fox- 
tail and  cock's-foot,  rank  chervil,  and  the  gross  cow-parsnip — 
the  time-honored  perquisite  of  the  vicarial  pony,  almost  ripe 
and  ready  for  the  scythe.  Up  about  the  gray  tower  the  daws 
were  garrulous,  and  larks  glimmered  In  the  sky  like  jewels. 
Fondle,  walking  waist-high  through  the  fat  churchyard  grass 
with  "Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson's  Sixty-nine  Melodious  and  Pro- 
gressive Organ  Voluntaries,  Compiled  for  the  Use  of  Begin- 
ners and  Students  of  this  Esteemed  Instrument,  With  or 
Without  Employment  of  the  Pedals  (with  a  Supplementary 
Appendix  touching  the  Judicious  Choice  and  Manipulation  of 
the  Stops)"  under  his  arm,  was  stirred  to  vague  and  disquiet 
aspirations  by  the  beauty  of  the  world  that  he  misdooted  he 
understood  too  little;  vague  aspirations  to  make  himself — 
however  humbly — in  some  way  worthy  of  it;  to  justify  In  some 
direction  (he  knew  not  which)  the  life  that  the  Great  High 
Giver  had  confided  to  him.    All  his  life  long  Fondle  had  been 


FONDIE  147 

possessed  of  this  foolish  sensitiveness  to  beauty,  without  know- 
ing in  what  beauty  consisted,  and  dimly  disquieted  by  the 
conviction  that  there  was,  somewhere  in  the  universe  of  knowl- 
edge, a  key  to  it;  and  that  had  he  but  the  learning  that  he 
lacked,  he  might  procure  admission  into  that  lovely  better 
world  from  which  now  his  ignorance  excluded  him.  Often 
in  earlier  years  had  the  wheelwright's  hand  aroused  him  vio- 
lently from  a  reverie  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes  vacant, 
and  wrung  from  him  the  penitent  confession: 

"I  misdoot  I  was  ower  deep  i*  contemplation  o'  yon  beauti- 
ful cloud,  feythur!"  or  "I  desarve  rebuke,  feythur.  I  was 
more  throng  wi'  yon  thrush  singing  than  wi'  my  wark." 

"What's  thoo  got  ti  do  wi'  clouds?"  the  wheelwright  would 
demand — or  "thrush,"  as  the  case  might  be.  "I'll  gie  thee 
clouds" — or  thrush"!  "Thoo's  as  mich  wark  as  thoo  can 
manage  i'  this  yard,  wi'oot  bothering  wi'  owt  else." 

The  idea  that  the  world  held  anything  out  of  the  compass 
of  sheer  utility  to  justify  man's  attention  had  no  place  in  the 
wheelwright's  head.  Hence  he  had  never  regarded  music  as  a 
recreation  but  as  an  accessory  to  worship;  and  worship  he  hacf 
never  conceded  as  a  means  of  giving  pleasure  to  the  Almighty, 
but  as  an  expedient  for  attracting  His  attention  and  letting 
Him  know  His  worshippers  were  busy  here  below.  To  take 
joy  in  the  fragrance  of  a  flower  would  have  been,  in  Joe  Bassie- 
moor's  contemptuous  opinion,  a  pleasure  merely  meet  for 
women-folk  with  nothing  better  to  do.  To  read  books,  simi- 
larly, for  the  mere  joy  of  them,  was  an  extravagance  for  the 
opulent  and  a  vice  of  the  idle.  "Diz  books  larn  thee  to  handle 
spokeshave  better?"  he  demanded  of  Fondie,  and  Fondie  mis- 
dooted  with  concern  that  they  didn't. 

Had  Fondie  not  been  unutterably  fond,  the  discipline  and 
stern  example  of  such  a  righteous  father  might  have  made  a 
man  of  him.  As  it  was,  he  kept  his  soul  alive  on  secret  aspira- 
tions that  were  almost  powerful  enough  to  be  real  stomach- 
aches when  they  came  upon  him  in  moments  of  solitude. 


148  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Music  stirred  him,  he  knew  not  how  or  why;  books,  too, 
haunted  him  with  the  desire  to  read  them — to  taste  of  the 
sweetness  of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  and  to  be 
wise.  And  beauty,  whether  of  Blanche  or  of  a  bird,  of  sunset 
or  moonrise,  of  stars  or  blossoms,  troubled  him  with  a  sweet 
sickness;  a  pining  of  the  soul  to  be  something  other  and  some- 
thing better  than  he  was.  When  the  last  rays  of  the  sinking 
sun  set  fire  to  the  shavings  in  his  father's  workshop  and  turned 
each  spider's  web  in  the  bull's-eye  window-panes  into  magic 
nets  and  filigrees  of  gold,  Fondie's  yearnings  rose  like  night 
mists,  obliterating  the  more  familiar  features  of  his  own  being 
and  filling  him  with  the  hazy  blindness  of  inexpressible  desire. 
The  memory  of  Blanche's  face  that  his  modesty  rarely  looked 
at  fired  him  to  ridiculous  ambitions;  ambitions  to  do  something 
worthy  of  her,  and  for  her  sake;  remote  and  impracticable 
things,  such  as  to  play  the  organ  well  enough  to  take  the 
service  at  Beeminster,  or  to  make  himself  proficient  in  his  own 
language,  and  to  master  sufficient  of  the  dead  tongues  to  be 
capable  of  reading  mural  epitaphs  in  hiccuping  Latin — attain- 
ments which  his  sober  reason  told  him  would  be  lost  upon 
the  Vicar's  daughter,  who  derided  knowledge  as  acutely  as  her 
worshipper  sighed  for  it. 

Aspirations  are  reasons  gone  divinely  mad ;  filled  with  frenzy 
and  force  enough  to  overcome  the  logic  that  would  resist  them. 
Thus  Fondie's  aspirations  contained  and  cherished  the  most 
unreasonable  of  all  elements,  to  wit,  Blanche.  When  he  played 
better  than  his  best,  it  was  to  Blanche  his  aspirations  played — 
albeit  his  common  sense  told  him  she  hated  organs  and  saw  no 
merit  in  the  hands  that  played  them.  And  when  he  passed 
through  the  churchyard,  or  sat  before  the  pedals  in  the  dim- 
ness of  the  chancel,  his  soul  seemed  comforted — however  un- 
consciously— ^with  a  sense  of  Blanche's  presence.  For  him  the 
Vicar's  daughter  was  incorporated  in  the  very  fabric  of  the 
church.  Its  stones  and  pillars,  its  pews  and  windows  and  very 
hassocks  exhaled  the  living  essence  of  her;  and  when  the  sun 


F  O  N  D  I  E  149 

burst  out  of  a  sudden  in  volume  of  glorious  gold,  and  swelled 
the  nave  and  lifted  the  roof,  and  enlarged  the  church  to  twice 
the  size  it  had  been,  the  sanctified  sunlight  shone  in  Fondie's 
vision  with  more  than  a  resemblance  to  Blanche's  hair,  and 
the  beams  that  fused  the  pillars  to  the  whiteness  of  alabaster 
were  of  one  substance  with  Blanche's  smile. 


XXXVII 

FONDIE  found  Blanche's  brother  seated  on  the  Warkup 
ledger  by  the  church  porch,  whittling  the  Y-shaped  half 
of  a  catapult. 

"Thoo's  late!"  he  apostrophized  Fondie,  still  whittling  away 
at  what  he  held,  and  sending  the  whittles  with  the  force  of 
projectiles  into  Fondie's  eyes.  "I'se  been  set  here  sin'  two 
o'clock,"  and  declared  he  would  have  gone  in  another  minute, 
though  that  was  unlikely,  since  the  new  catapult  depended  for 
its  elastic  on  Fondie's  payment  for  his  blowing  of  the  organ. 
Fondie,  making  modest  reference  to  the  bulky  three-and-eleven- 
pence-ha'penny  watch  that  fattened  his  vest  pocket,  ventured 
to  suggest  that  Master  Alick  had  maybe  miscalculated  the  time. 
He  made  it  (said  he)  no  more  than  a  minute  turned  the  hour 
appointed.  And  church  clock  (look  ye,  sir)^said  about  same. 
But  the  Bullocky  expressed  himself  superior  to  three-and- 
elevenpence-ha'penny  watches  and  church  clocks. 

"I'se  been  set  here  'aif  an  hour,"  he  said  obstinately,  "and 
it  was  before  two  when  I  left  yam.  It'll  'a  to  come  off 
blawin'." 

Fondie  declared  himself  to  be  very  willing  that  it  should. 

"I'se  no  wish  to  tek  advantage  of  ye,  Master  Alick,"  said  he. 

"I'll  watch  thoo  dizn't,"  the  Bullocky  ungraciously  averred. 
"Gie  us  hod  o'  penny." 

As  soon  as  the  coin  had  changed  hands — not  for  the  better — 
and   been   bestowed   in   a   pocket   that   bulged   with   nameless 


ISO  FOND  IE 

personality:  "Lend  us  another  penny  an'  all,  Fondie  Bassle- 
moor,"  the  Bullocky  said,  in  a  voice  between  menace  and 
persuasion,  "while  next  week.  I  promised  to  get  summut  for 
oor  lass  wi'  it,"  he  explained.  And  concluded  with  the  threat: 
"I  wean't  blaw  for  thee  nobbut  thoo  diz." 

Any  other  than  Fondie,  under  such  conditions  of  provocation 
and  blank  brigandage,  would  have  dislodged  the  Bullocky 
from  his  complacent  seat  on  the  Warkup  ledger  by  means  of 
the  nearmost  ear  and  booted  him  gently  into  a  better  frame  of 
mind.  But  Fondie  had  no  proper  spirit ;  no  fitting  self-respect. 
His  passion  for  Blanche  had  absorbed  these  qualities  from  him 
utterly.  He  merely  said,  *'I  misdoot  Fse  doing  wrong,  Master 
Alick,"  and  parted  with  the  second  penny  as  placidly  as  the 
first;  and  even  with  a  third  when,  encouraged  by  success,  the 
Bullocky  made  him  "mek  it  threepence,  Fondie,  and  Fll  blaw 
for  thee  as  long  as  thoo  likes,  for  nowt,  Saturday  after  next." 

Having  done  this,  and  admonished  Fondie  emphatically  to 
"think  on,  noo,  that's  threepence,"  the  Bullocky  betrayed  no 
immediate  anxiety  to  enter  the  sacred  precincts  and  assume  the 
functions  of  a  blower,  but  reverted  industriously  to  his  whit- 
tling, as  though  the  episode  of  payment  had  put  him  behind- 
hand with  his  work  and  precious  time  must  now  be  made  up. 
This  weapon  completed  (as  he  proudly  explained  to  Fondie) 
a  set  of  six — all  carried  upon  his  person,  and  most  elegantly 
and  precisely  graded  for  every  description  of  game.  From  his 
waistcoat  pocket  he  produced  the  bijou,  church  or  parlor  cata- 
pult— a  delicate  weapon  of  the  size  of  a  forefinger — carved  out 
of  cedarwood  from  a  cigar-box  begged  from  the  proprietor  of 
the  White  Cow,  and  furnished  with  fine  elastic  purloined 
from  half  a  yard  of  pale  blue  material  destined  for  Blanche's 
new  suspenders.  From  various  other  districts  of  his  person  he 
produced  in  turn  the  rakish-looking  weapon  for  use  upon  larks 
and  singing  birds,  and  the  mighty  engine  of  destruction  for 
ground  game,  chimney-pots,  and  telegraph-insulators,  that  ex- 
pedited a  stone  of  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg  with  the  velocity  of  a 


F  O  N  D  I  E  rsi 

meteor.  This  implement,  of  fourfold  plaited  elastic,  was  the 
object  of  his  special  pride,  since  it  had  once  brought  a  hesitat- 
ing rabbit  to  earth,  and  being  inspired  to  a  shooting  spirit  by 
the  mere  display  of  it,  he  leaped  from  his  place  on  the  Warkup 
ledger  and,  after  coursing  like  a  harrier  over  the  church  path 
with  his  nose  to  ground  in  quest  of  a  serviceable  pebble,  he 
bade  Fondie  "See  ye!"  and  took  a  prodigious  shot  skyward  at 
the  church  daws.  The  missile — shaving  the  shooter's  cheek  so 
close  as  to  leave  a  whiplash  weal  upon  it — struck  the  stone- 
work of  the  tower  with  a  gratifying  crack,  scattering  the  gar- 
rulous daws  that  rose  in  noisy  circles  and  floated  restless  and 
protesting  round  the  finials.  Fondie,  relieved  to  have  the 
demonstration  bloodless,  remarked,  after  a  discreet  lapse  of 
silence  that  might  be  deemed  either  admiration  or  its  opposite, 
and  would  indeed  have  been  the  latter  for  anybody  but  the 
sacred  brother  of  Blanche: 

"I'll  be  getting  choch-door  open.  Maybe  you'll  follow  after 
awhile.  Master  Alick.     I  don't  want  ti  hurry  ye." 

The  sacred  brother  made  a  sound  in  his  mouth  that  was  as 
ambiguous  as  Fondie's  silence  had  been,  and,  restoring  the 
engine  of  destruction  to  his  pocket,  took  up  the  discarded  knife 
and  resumed  his  whittling,  asking  Fondie  the  cryptic  and  some- 
what suggestive  question: 

"What  diz  thoo  want  ti  play  orgin  for?" 

As  he  was  still  seated  upon  the  Warkup  tomb  when  Fondie 
exchanged  the  outer  sunlight  for  the  church's  inner  gloom — 
seemingly  absorbed  in  his  work  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else — 
Fondie  did  him  the  injustice  oi^supposing  that  he  did  not  intend 
to  follow.  The  suspicion  was  unfounded,  for  subsequently 
Blanche's  brother  sauntered  through  the  little  southern  door 
cut  out  of  the  great  one,  and  up  the  aisle  to  the  American  organ 
in  the  chancel,  whittling  all  the  way.  But  his  heart  was  plainly 
not  upon  the  windy  work  in  store.  To  shape  an  instrument  of 
destructive  precision  and  to  satisfy  the  insatiable  requirements 
of  an  organ's  lungs  is  a  task  meet  for  more  than  one  pair  of 


152  FONDIE 

hands.  Time  and  time  again  the  breath  went  out  of  Dr.  Ezra 
Blenkinson's  dismal  voluntaries  with  a  convulsive  wail,  and 
the  blower,  caught  at  a  disadvantage,  begged  Fondie  "Hod  on 
a  bit.  I'll  gie  thee  a  blaw  in  a  minute" — and  then,  thrusting 
the  knife  between  his  teeth,  laid  hold  of  the  unrigid  lever  with 
a  murderous  gesture  and  gorged  the  bellows  till  they  groaned 
again  and  the  very  organ  trembled  with  this  apoplectic  super- 
pressure.  Last  of  all,  the  work  of  whittling  being  completed, 
and  nothing  lacking  to  the  efficiency  of  the  weapon  but  the 
elastic  that  Fondie's  coppers  were  to  buy,  the  Bullocky  cried 
with  an  effrontery  that  would  have  been  shameless  in  any  but 
Blanche's  brother: 

**Noo,  then!  This  is  last  go.  So  thoo  knaws.  Thoo  mun 
mek  best  on  her.     I'se  gien  thee  aboon  an  hour,  Fondie." 

With  that,  throwing  himself  into  the  conclusive  work  with 
such  violence  that  the  organ  rocked  like  a  ship  at  sea,  the  Bul- 
locky took  his  leave  without  any  further  notification  to  the 
victim  of  this  base  desertion. 


XXXVIII 

THE  death-rattle  sounded  in  the  throat  of  Dr.  Ezra 
Blenkinson's  ninth  voluntary  (Andante  Religioso  and 
Cantabile)  before  the  footsteps  of  its  murderer  had 
passed  out  of  the  church.  Fondie,  turning  his  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  nave,  with  his  hands  upon  the  console,  still 
grasping  the  chord  of  the  music's  untimely  demise,  saw  the 
vivid  ingress  of  white  sunlight  from  the  outer  world  and  heard 
the  clatter  of  the  iron  latch.  For  awhile  he  sat,  tasting  the 
new  quality  of  absolute  loneliness,  and  then  shook  himself 
from  the  reverie  that  a  silent  church  induces,  misdooting  "this 
is  not  road  ti  better  mysen,  hooiver!"  and  applied  himself  to 
the  diligent  practice  of  the  dumb  pedals. 

Immersed  thus  in  the  depths  of  this  absorbing  occupation, 


FONDIE  IS3 

with  his  shoulders  arched  and  his  chin  embedded  in  his  chest, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  alternate  toe  and  heel  in  their  slow 
progression,  he  was  not  all  at  once  aware  that  his  solitude  had 
been  disturbed;  but  engrossed  in  the  action  of  his  extremities, 
and  wrapped  in  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  muffled  thudding 
of  the  pedals  and  his  own  voice  (affirming  religiously  the  name 
of  the  note  played:  C,  C  sharp,  E  flat,  G),  he  awoke  with 
an  exclamation  to  the  consciousness  of  a  countenance  at  close 
quarters,  watching  him. 

"My  wod!     Ye  gied  me  a  start!" 

Then,  realizing  almost  in  the  same  breath  who  his  visitor 
was,  he  apologized  contritely  for  this  disrespectful  surprise. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  misdoot  I  was  ower  deep  en- 
grossed to  notice  you  come  in." 

The  young  gentleman  of  the  old  house  said  promptly:  "No. 
It  was  my  fault.  I'm  sorry  I  startled  you.  Perhaps  I  have 
no  right  to  come  in  here.     Do  you  mind?" 

"It's  not  a  matter  o'  me  minding,  sir,"  said  Fondle,  whom 
such  unwonted  deference  to  his  feelings  took  by  surprise. 
"Choch  is  as  mich  yours  as  mine.  You're  very  welcome  so 
far  as  I'se  consarned,  and  I  know  Vicar'd  say  same  if  he  was 
here.  It's  a  pity  he  wasn't  here  an'  all,"  he  added.  "He  could 
'a  shown  ye  roond,  then,  and  explained  inscriptions."  It  came 
as  a  further  surprise  to  Fondie's  modesty  to  learn  that  his 
visitor  had  been  led  into  the  church  by  no  thirst  for  inscrip- 
tions, but  by  the  sound  of  the  music  alone.  He  had  been 
listening  beneath  the  east  window,  he  confided,  until  the  music 
stopped ;  and  then,  drawn  by  curiosity  to  know  the  source  of 
it,  had  come  round  to  the  porch. 

"A  boy  was  just  leaving  it,"  he  explained.  "He  was  whis- 
tling. He  did  not  see  me.  But  I  knew  by  that  that  the  door 
must  be  open.  It  is  not  always  open.  It  was  not  open  the 
other  afternoon." 

And  then,  turning  his  gray  eye  from  Fondie  to  the  organ, 
and  from  the  organ  back  again  to  Fondie,  as  though  to  estab- 


IS4  F  O  N  D  I  E 

lish  the  association  between  them,  expressed  his  surprise  to  find 
Fondie  where  he  was. 

"I  didn't  think  it  would  be  you,"  he  said.  "I  did  not  know 
you  could  play.    You  never  told  me.     How  clever  of  you." 

The  look  of  admiration  that  he  poured  upon  Fondie  in  saying 
this  made  Fondie  blush  to  find  himself  the  sudden  recipient 
of  such  unmerited  praise. 

"I  misdoot  there's  not  mich  cleverness  i'  me,  sir,"  he  declared, 
speaking  with  the  subdued  and  reverential  voice  for  his  own 
imperfections  and  the  edifice  he  sat  in.  "I  only  wish  there  was. 
I  wish  for  warship's  sake  I  mud  play  a  deal  better  than  I  do. 
If  I'd  any  cleverness  aboot  me,  I  ought  ti  play  better  an'  all, 
time  I'se  been  at  it." 

*'I  can't  play  at  all,"  his  visitor  admitted,  with  a  certain 
wistfulness  in  the  confession.  "Besides  .  .  .  you  are  clever. 
Look  how  you  took  the  pump  to  pieces  and  put  it  all  together 
again.     I  could  never  have  done  that." 

"Why,  as  for  pump,  sir,"  Fondie  modestly  explained, 
"pump's  in  a  manner  o'  speaking  my  trade.  I'se  used  ti  pumps, 
or  should  be.  I'se  been  brought  up  among  'em  all  my  life. 
And  a  man  ought  ti  reckon  ti  understand  syke  jobs  as  he's 
paid  for,  sir — though  I  misdoot  there's  some  that  dizzn't." 
He  seized  the  opportunity  to  inquire  after  the  pump's  health. 
"Diz  she  still  run  off  at  all,  sir?" — Expressing  keen  satisfaction 
to  learn  (after  the  question  had  been  repeated  in  a  form  more 
intelligible  to  the  young  gentleman)  that  she  did  not,  and  that 
he  had  made  what  in  the  vernacular  was  described  as  "a  job 
on  her.'* 

But  though  Fondie's  mastery  of  the  pump  had  commanded 
his  visitor's  admiration  in  the  first  place,  it  was  to  the  music 
and  the  more  intellectual  side  of  Fondie's  nature  that  the  young 
gentleman's  interest  attached  now.  To  the  obloquy  and  de- 
rision of  his  beloved  instrument — the  instrument  that  lent  to 
his  ambition  a  voice,  and  an  expression  (however  stammering) 
to  his  dearest  dreams — Fondie  had  grown  by  hard  experience 


I 


FOND  IE  155 

habited;  but  never  till  now  had  he  seen  the  organ  gazed  at 
with  eyes  of  sympathy  and  veneration,  or  stood  in  company 
with  one  whose  interest  In  It  furnished  the  least  counterpart 
to  his  own.  Blanche  flashed  at  It  a  smile  of  candid  scorn. 
Blanche's  brother,  when  he  blew  for  Fondie  and  was  not  en- 
gaged in  independent  manufacture,  carved  Initials  and  profane 
emblems  on  it,  and  demoniac  heads  that  vied  with  gargoyles 
for  hideousness,  and  usurped  most  of  the  breath  that  Fondie's 
music  needed.  Even  the  best-Intentioned  spoke  of  Fondie  and 
his  organ  in  terms  of  indulgent  disrespect,  calling  the  latter 
his  "calf"  and  bidding  him  "mek  her  blare!"  But  the  gray 
eyes  of  the  young  gentleman  of  the  old  house  displayed  not 
the  slightest  inclination  to  laughter  or  any  phase  of  friendly 
contempt,  asking  questions  In  the  soberest  spirit  of  Inquiry. 
What  (for  Instance)  had  Fondle  been  doing  when  the  young 
gentleman  first  observed  him?  And  why  was  he  so  attentive 
to  his  feet?  The  pedals?  Which  were  the  pedals?  Then  if 
Fondie  were  playing  the  pedals,  why  did  they  make  no  sound? 
Because  there  was  no  wind?  But  why  was  there  no  wind? 
The  blower  had  had  to  go  away?  Oh,  was  that  the  boy  he 
had  noticed  going  over  the  stile?  How  did  one  blow  an  organ? 
By  the  handle  at  the  back?  Like  this?  Might  he  be  permitted 
to  blow,  for  instance?  And  If  he  blew,  would  Fondle  play 
something  for  him?  The  visitor,  with  eagerness  In  his  young 
gray  eyes,  begged  that  Fondie  would. 

"I  misdoot,  sir,"  Fondie  replied,  with  a  sudden  access  of 
humility,  "...  I  misdoot  that  blowln's  ower  rough  work  for 
your  soft  hands.  And  I'se  jealous  I  should  be  doing  wrong  tl 
let  you  blow  orgin  for  such  as  me.  Aud  gentleman  wouldn't 
be  very  well  suited." 

The  boy  looked  Into  Fondie's  face  for  awhile  as  though  he 
would  like  to  deny  the  force  of  this  argument  of  disparity, 
but  the  desire  faded  Into  a  constrained  and  reluctant  admis- 
sion. 

"I  know  he  wouldn't.    Nothing  suits  him.     He  wouldn't  let 
11 


is6  F  O  N  D  I  E 

me  be  here  if  he  knew.  He's  gone  to  HunmoutK,  and  won't  be 
back  till  tea-time."  There  was  a  note  of  rebellion  in  the  young 
gentleman's  voice  underlying  these  statements  of  fact.  "He 
won't  let  me  do  anything.  He  won't  let  me  make  friends  with 
anybody." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  oak  truss 
of  the  console,  fingering  the  brown  woodwork  mechanically 
with  his  hand.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  his  thoughts  moved 
onward  still  with  him  across  a  tract  of  memories  and  unspoken 
discontent.  Had  Fondle  been  some  people,  and  possessed  their 
curiosity  and  wisdom,  he  might  have  made  profitable  use  of 
this  opportunity  to  widen  the  breach  in  his  victim's  discontent, 
and,  insinuating  entrance  while  the  gates  of  the  owner's  mind 
stood  ajar,  obtained  a  peep  into  the  secret  and  mysterious  life 
beyond.  But  Fondle  was  imbued  with  no  such  laudable  am- 
bition. All  his  life  long  he  had  been  obsessed  with  the  absurd 
belief  that  other  people's  business — save  in  such  respect  as  it 
drew  upon  his  sympathy  and  practical  assistance — did  not  con- 
cern him.  True  to  his  character,  therefore.  Fondle  laid  no 
ingenious  fuel  on  the  young  gentleman's  mood,  whose  blaze 
might  have  lighted  up  some  matters  at  the  moment  dark,  but 
adopted  the  foolish  and  pacific  course,  and  remarked  when  at 
last  the  silence  seemed  to  demand  some  form  of  acknowledg- 
ment from  him: 

"Maybe  he  acts  for  t'  best,  sir.  He's  an  aud  gentleman  wi' 
years  upon  his  shoulders.  Very  like  he  has  reasons  of  his  own, 
that's  wiser  than  folk  mud  think  'em." 

"I  know  what  his  reasons  are,"  said  the  boy.  But  he  did 
not  disclose  them.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for  Fondle  to  put 
the  question,  but  if  so  he  did  not  know  Fondle.  Fondle  did 
not  even  encourage  him  by  a  judicious  silence,  but  responded 
with  almost  precipitate  humility: 

"It's  not  for  syke  as  me  ti  inquire  into  'em,  sir." 

"I  love  music,"  the  young  gentleman  continued.  An  ob- 
server more  acute  than  Fondle  would  have  seen  that  the  state- 


FONDIE  IS7 

ment  did  not  represent  the  strict  continuity  of  his  thoughts, 
and  that  some  intermediate  part  of  his  thinking  had  been  suf- 
fered to  lapse  in  silence.  "But  he  won't  let  me  learn.  He 
says  it  isn't  manly." 

The  point  of  view  was  not  altogether  strange  to  Fondie. 
Among  his  own  acquaintances  were  many  who  looked  upon 
the  art  with  the  intolerance  for  a  purely  feminine  attainment, 
such  as  bread-making  or  needlework,  and  could  not  understand 
his  choice  of  such  an  instrument  as  a  harmonium. 

"He  says  it  isn't  manly."  Fondie's  visitor  repeated  the  old 
gentleman's  dictum  as  though  by  way  of  comment  on  the 
injustice  of  it.  There  was  no  pronounced  resentment  in  the 
voice,  but  the  hand  still  traced  and  retraced  the  curves  and 
angles  of  the  truss,  and  his  brows  were  knitted  in  the  work  of 
deep  and  rapid  thinking. 

"Why,"  said  the  pacific  Fondie,  "I  know  there's  some  dizzn't 
hold  music  i'  mich  esteem.  It's  not  what  ye  may  call  an  active 
occupation,  sir.  I've  heard  some  folk  say  music  was  only  for 
idle  fellows  that  couldn't  bide  ti  wark.  Maybe  aud  gentleman 
thinks  it  wouldn't  gie  you  a  deal  of  exercise.  It's  close  sitting, 
at  times,  I'll  agree." 

"Do  books  and  writing  give  exercise?"  the  young  gentleman 
demanded.  "And  sitting  at  a  table,  copying  ..."  his  tongue 
stopped  obviously  on  the  brink  of  declaring  the  matter  to  be 
copied,  and  revised  the  sentence's  conclusion,  ".  .  .  copying 
things?" 

Fondie  admitted,  "Why,  one  mud  think  not  a  deal,  sir."  But 
he  made  the  suggestion,  "Aud  gentleman  thinks,  maybe,  music 
isn't  suitable  for  syke  as  you  that  hasn't  any  need  ti  wark  for 
their  living.  He  thinks  maybe  there's  other  studies  more  de- 
sarvlng  of  attention." 

"What  studies?"  inquired  the  boy. 

"Why,  it  wouldn't  beseem  me  ti  name  'em,  sir,"  said  Fondle, 
"even  if  I  possessed  ability.  There's  some  things  gentlefolk 
is  lamed  to  do,  and  others  things  they're  larned  not  to  do,  but 


is8  FONDIE 

I  expect  you'll  know  what  they  are  a  deal  better  than  me,  that's 
been  brought  up  all  my  life  among  workin'  people." 

The  boy  said,  "I  know  .  .  ."  and  continued  the  rest  of  his 
reflection  in  silence.  "I  get  tired  of  being  a  gentleman!"  he 
confided  on  a  sudden,  *'.  .  .  and  of  having  no  friends  and  no 
games,  and  nobody  to  speak  to  but  him.  He  says  my  own 
pride  ought  to  sustain  me.  I  ought  not  to  wish  to  associate 
.  .  .  "  he  paused,  and  then  blurted  out  the  words  in  his  mind 
— "with  people  beneath  me." 

"Onnybody  can  see  he's  a  thorough  gentleman,"  Fondie 
subscribed  considerately.  "Way  he  walks,  and  way  he  puts  his 
hand  tiv  his  ear,  is  enough  for  them  that  has  any  idea  what 
a  gentleman  should  be.  He's  an  aud  gentleman  anybody  mud 
be  proud  on  if  he  belonged  tiv  'em." 

The  boy  exclaimed  impulsively: 

**I  wish  he  belonged  to  you^ 

"To  me,  sir?" 

**Yes.    I  envy  you.** 

**Mf,  sir?"  Fondie  said  again,  with  incredulous  surprise, 
and  the  sad  smile  oozed  out  of  him  and  disappeared  after  its 
brief  and  wonted  manner.  "I  misdoot  there's  not  a  deal  ti 
envy  aboot  me." 

"At  least  you  can  do  what  you  like,"  the  young  gentleman 
said.    "You  can  please  yourself." 

"Why,  self's  last  person  to  please,  sir,"  Fondie  answered 
diplomatically.  "And  as  for  doing  what  I  like,  I'se  jealous 
there's  not  many  things  I  like  a  deal  after  I'se  once  gotten  'em 
done.  Anybody  can  discarn  a  better  way  o'  doing  anything 
than  them  that  diz  'em." 

"But  you  can  come  here,"  the  boy  persisted,  "and  you  can 
play  music.    Nobody  stops  you." 

"It's  true  nobody  stops  me,  sir,"  Fondie  conceded.  "Maybe 
for  my  own  sake  it  would  be  as  well  if  anybody  did,  and  kept 
me  to  work  I'se  better  qualified  to  perform.  I  misdoot  music's 
beyond  me.    I  mud  as  lieve  seek  ti  mek  mysen  inti  a  gentleman. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  IS9 

I  can  see  folly  o'  that,  well  enough,  and  maybe  wi'  time  I  shall 
see  folly  o'  the  other.  Sometimes  I  think  Fse  seeking  ti  play 
for  love  o'  music,  and  sometimes  I  misdoot  it's  ti  please  my 
pride.  You'll  maybe  ask,  'What  pride?'  sir — and  I'se  jealous 
there's  yery  little  that  properly  belongs  me.  So  long  as  I  don't 
look  for  it  ower  keen  I  can  make  mysen  think  it's  there,  but 
moment  I  set  mysen  to  fin'  oot  what  it's  made  of,  there's  naught 
to  see.  All  I  can  find  is  ignorance  and  imperfections,  and  a 
wish  ti  be  better  than  I  desarve  to  be.  Preacher  was  right,  I 
think,  when  he  said,  'AH  is  vanity.'  You'll  understand,  sir,'* 
he  added  hastily,  "I'se  not  applying  anything  o'  this  to  you.'* 


XXXIX 

ALL  the  while  that  Fondie  spoke,  his  eyes  held  con- 
scientiously aloof  from  the  young  gentleman's  face  as 
though  they  did  not  presume  to  approach  even  the 
threshold  of  his  vision — more  especially  since  he  was  aware  the 
vision  rested  on  him,  and  that  the  young  gentleman  from  the 
old  house  had  him  under  close  and  curious  scrutiny.  But  it 
was  not  the  sort  of  scrutiny  that  brought,  as  Blanche's  did,  em- 
barrassment upon  his  words.  It  was  the  sort  of  scrutiny  before 
which  the  modest  element  in  him  seemed  rather  to  find  tongue 
and  feel  singularly  encouraged  and  competent  to  speak.  His 
fresh-shaved  chin  was  very  smooth  and  round;  and  his  cheek 
very  clean ;  and  his  modestly  averted  eye  full  of  honest  gentle- 
ness; and  his  lips  as  candid  as  they  could  be.  He  might  have 
stood,  without  embellishment,  for  the  personification  of  Truth; 
save  that  Truth  figures  as  a  poor  friend-maker,  and  that  the 
eyes  of  the  young  gentleman  grew  in  interest  and  friendliness 
as  Truth's  delegate  proceeded. 

"I  like  you,"  he  said  at  last,  as  though  the  tribute  of  appre- 
ciation already  visible  in  his  gray  eyes  could  be  held  back  from 
his  lips  no  longer.     "I  don't  know  why,  but  I  do." 


i6o  FONDIE 

To  a  soul  unused  to  compliments  or  flattery  such  a  tribute 
was  disturbing.  Fondie  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  brown  hair, 
and  it  was  he  now  who  stroked  the  console  of  the  organ. 

"I  misdoot  there's  little  to  like  aboot  me,  sir,"  he  said  eva- 
sively. "I'se  fresh  to  ye,  maybe.  You  wouldn't  say  same  if  you 
knowed  me  better." 

The  young  gentleman  did  not  argue  this  question  of  the 
validity  of  his  judgment,  but  surprised  Fondie  still  further  with 
the  impulsive  request: 

"Teach  me  how  to  play." 

Many  considerations  and  objections  rose  anxiously  into 
Fondle's  mind,  but  he  chose  at  last — after  a  silence  during 
which  the  young  gentleman  kept  close  watch  on  the  external 
process  of  his  thoughts — the  answer  that  lay  closest  to  his  own 
humih'ty,  saying: 

"I  misdoot,  sir,  you've  formed  ower-high  an  estimate  o'  my 
skill.  It's  not  for  the  syke  as  me  ti  instruct  anybody.  Them 
shouldn't  teach  that's  never  been  taught." 

"Have  you  never  been  taught?"  the  young  gentleman  in- 
quired. 

Fondie  answered,  "Not  what  you'd  call  'taught,'  sir,"  and 
was  disconcerted  to  hear  his  virtues  extolled. 

"That  proves  you  all  the  cleverer." 

"Why,  I'se  jealous  there's  not  mich  cleverness,"  Fondie  ob- 
jected respectfully,  "in  doing  things  one  way  that  ought,  very 
like,  ti  be  done  another;  wi'oot  knowing  for  certain  whether 
they're  right  or  wrong.  An'  if  one's  wrong  ti  start  wi',  it's  no 
matter  aboot  doing  one's  best.  Best  only  meks  warse  on  it. 
Bad  habits  dizn't  grow  inti  good  by  practicing  'em,  sir.  There's 
books  ti  larn  ye,  I  know,  but  books  cost  money.  They're  not 
for  syke  as  me,  and  it's  not  always  that  syke  as  me  can  under- 
stand 'em." 

"Perhaps  I  could  help  you,"  the  boy  suggested.  "We  could 
help  one  another." 

The  suggestion,  humbly  acknowledged,  tended  to  deepen  the 


FONDIE  i6i 

look  of  unworthiness  that  sat  on  Fondie's  forehead.  An  appro- 
priate reply  was  so  difficult  to  formulate  and  so  long  in  coming 
that  the  young  gentleman  had  time  to  prompt  him  with  the 
question,  "Couldn't  we?" 

"We  could,  sir,"  Fondie  admitted  dubiously  at  last.  "Least- 
ways, I  know  you  could,  sir,  if  our  positions  was  different  fro' 
be  what  they  are.  But  I'se  jealous  I  oughtn't  ti  encourage  you, 
sir,  if  I  did  what  I  should  do  by  rights." 

"Why  not?"  inquired  the  boy.     "Because  of  him?" 

"I'll  admit  he  was  in  my  mind,"  Fondie  acknowledged. 

"Are  you  frightened  of  him?" 

"Not  exactly  frightened,  sir,"  Fondie  answered,  "i'  sense  o' 
being  frightened." 

"You  helped  her*'  the  boy  reminded  him,  "over  the  wall. 
You'd  do  things  for  her.  I  know  you  would.  You  brought 
me  her  message — and  the  flower.  You  knew  he  wouldn't  like 
that.  And  you  knew  he  wouldn't  like  you  speaking  to  me,  or 
me  speaking  to  you,  for  you  said  so— and  you  kept  looking 
round  all  the  time." 

"I  can't  deny  it,"  Fondie  confessed.  "I  can  only  regret 
it." 

"Do  you  regret  it?" 

"I  misdoot  I  ought  ti  regret  it,  sir,"  Fondie  answered.  "I 
try  to  regret  it.  It  seems  least  I  can  do.  It  seems  least  any- 
body can  do  when  they've  done  onnything  they  know  they 
shouldn't  'a  done." 

For  a  while  the  young  gentleman  was  silent,  looking  at  Fon- 
die as  though  suffering  these  last  words  to  sink  deep  into  his 
understanding. 

"/  don't  regret  it,"  he  declared  promptly  and  resolutely  after 
awhile.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to,  but  I  don't.  It's  no  good 
pretending.  I've  got  tired  of  being  obedient  always.  Nothing 
comes  of  it.  I  mean  to  be  disobedient  sometimes — like  her. 
She's  disobedient.  She  says  so.  I  was  talking  to  her  the  other 
afternoon.     Perhaps  she  told  you?" 


i62  FONDIE 

"I'se  fit  ti  think  she  named  it,  sir,"  Fondie  modestly  avowed, 
albeit  Blanche  had  done  much  more  than  that. 

"I  was  standing  by  the  gate,"  his  visitor  continued,  "when 
she  came  by.  She  had  a  book  In  her  hand.  She  lent  it  me. 
I  have  it  here."  He  dipped  his  hand  for  a  moment  into  the 
breast  pocket  of  his  coat  and  brought  out  a  familiar,  shabby, 
and  much-rolled  Sunday  Sacred,  reciting  the  title  "  'Lord 
Ronald's  Crime;  or,  The  Lost  Heir  of  Weirchester.'  Have 
you  read  it?" 

"I'se  fit  ti  think  I  know  name,  sir,"  Fondie  said,  "and  yon 
spot-mark  on  cover.  I'se  seed  Miss  Blanche  wi'  it  in  her  hand 
a  time  or  two,  but  it's  not  one  she  ever  lent  me." 

"It's  awfully  good,"  the  young  gentleman  assured  Fondie, 
with  a  gleam  of  enthusiasm.  "Particularly  that  part  where 
they  shot  him.  I'm  glad  they  did.  I  was  reading  the  book  in 
bed  this  morning.  I  wish  It  had  been  longer.  But  there  is  a 
sequel:  'The  Missing  Will;  or.  Vengeance  is  Mine,  saith  the 
Lord,  I  Will  Repay.'  I  shall  get  Blanche  to  lend  me  that." 
He  restored  the  thumbed  and  flabby  novelette  to  his  breast 
pocket,  reverting  to  its  lender.  "She  wanted  me  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  her,  but  I  couldn't.  She  wanted  to  know  why  not. 
And  when  I  told  her  he  was  in  the  garden  she  said :  'Well,  what 
if  he  Is?  You  can  slip  out  before  he  comes.  I  aren't  frightened 
of  him.  Are  you?'  When  I  told  her  he  had  forbidden  me  to 
go  out,  she  said:  'What  If  he  has?  Father's  told  me  the  same. 
If  I'd  taken  any  notice  of  what  he  told  me  I  should  be  sat  at 
home  now.  He's  always  telling  me.  It's  sickening.  I  hadn't 
need  do  everything  he  tells  me  to,  or  I  should  never  do  anything 
or  get  out  at  all.'  She  said :  'Come  along  while  you've  got  the 
chance.  Don't  be  a  coward.  What  can  he  do  at  you  if  you 
do?'  I  said  I  didn't  know.  'Why,  he  can't  do  anything,*  she 
told  me,  *.  .  .  except  talk,  like  father  does,  and  tell  you  not  to 
do  It  again.  He's  all  talk.  I  don't  care.  I  aren't  frightened 
of  talk.  Talk  doesn't  hurt  anybody.'  And  after  she'd  gone  I 
thought  of  her  and  you,  and  wished  I  had  done  as  she  asked 


FONDIE  163 

me.  I've  thought  of  you  both  ever  since  that  first  night.  Lots 
of  times.    Why  can't  I  have  friends,  like  other  people?" 

"Why,  maybe  you  could,  sir,"  Fondie  consoled  him,  ".  ,  , 
nobbut  they  was  suitable  ti  your  station." 

"I  don't  care  whether  they're  suitable  to  my  station  or  not. 
Any  friends  are  better  than  none  at  all,"  the  young  gentleman 
contended.  "I've  never  had  any.  He  won't  let  me.  He  talks 
to  people ;  why  mayn't  I  ?  What  harm  is  there  in  my  talking 
to  you?" 

"One  would  think  not  a  deal,  sir/*  Fondie  subscribed.  "But 
aud  gentleman's  maybe  jealous  to  keep  you  oot  o'  bad  habits, 
and  fro*  picking  up  speech  fro*  sykc  as  me  that  wouldn't  beseem 
ye.  *EviI  communications  corrupt  good  manners,*  as  Book 
rightfully  informs  us.  I  know  my  speech  is  imperfect;  there's 
a  deal  o'  things  I  say  that's  not  according  ti  rule.  It's  been  a 
trouble  ti  me  many  a  time,  when  I'se  wanted  ti  speak  a  word 
and  not  known  how,  or  ti  express  mysen  and  not  known  way. 
I'se  been  fit  ti  blame  my  feythur,  noo  and  again,  that  he  didn't 
think  fit  ti  gie  me  a  bit  more  laming.  But  maybe,  if  he  had 
'a  done,  I  shouldn't  'a  made  much  better  use  on  it.  And  I'se 
thought  this,  too;  that  I  mud  vally  it  all  the  more  for  not 
having  it.  It's  way  wi'  folk,  I  know,  sir.  They  think  a  deal 
more  o'  things  they  haven't  got  than  of  things  that  belongs  'em. 
I'se  always  had  a  desire  to  lam  and  mek  myself  better  than  I 
really  is,  though  I'se  not  so  sure,  after  all,  there's  any  merit  i' 
that,  sir.  An'  maybe  we're  better  as  we  are,  if  we  only  knew 
it.  An'  then  again,  I'se  never  made  use  o'  syke  advantages  as 
I  had.  I  misdoot  that's  way  wi*  me.  There's  lots  of  things 
I  could  *a  got  ti  know  and  perfect  mysen  in,  nobbut  I'd  asked 
Vicar  or  put  question  ti  Schoolmaster,  but  I  never  did.  It  was 
always:  *I  wean't  trouble  him  ti-day;  I'll  ask  'em  next  time,' 
wi'  me." 

He  misdooted  it  was  a  bad  trait,  and  that  the  quality  would 
lead  him  nowhere,  since  it  ran  through  all  his  undertakings. 
For  further  illustrations  of  which  he  adduced  the  organ  yonder. 


i64  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"This  organ?"  asked  the  young  gentleman,  for  Fondlc's 
eye  seemed  directed  far  away  into  the  honeyed  dimness  of  the 
church. 

"Not  this  organ,  sir,"  Fondie  explained.  "Organ  up  i'  loft 
yonder.     Far  end  o'  nave." 

Following  the  direction  of  Fondie's  eye,  the  boy  gazed  along 
with  him  at  the  ancient  structure  of  grained  wood  and  dec- 
orated pipe  that  rose  out  of  the  gallery  beneath  the  tower. 

"What!  There  arc  two  organs  here!  Do  you  play  the  big 
one  on  Sundays?" 

"She  hasn't  sounded  this  twenty  years,  sir,"  Fondie  answered. 
"Not  i'  my  time,  at  least." 

The  boy  asked,  "Why  not?" 

"She's  ower  mich  decayed,  sir,"  Fondie  informed  him. 
"Them  that  had  charge  of  her  didn't  look  after  her  as  they 
should.  Roof  fell  in  once,  i'  my  feythur's  time;  rain  poured 
doon  intiv  her  all  through  winter  and  fore-end.  Why,  I  be- 
lieve they  covered  her  up  best  way  they  could  wi*  a  stack- 
sheet,  but  damage  had  been  done  then.  They  mended  roof  and 
said  organ  mun  wait  awhile,  and  she's  been  waiting  ever  since." 

"Why?" 

"Because  she'd  cost  ower-mich  money  ti  fittle  her,  sir. 
There's  been  talk  of  hodding  a  bazaar  a  time  or  two,  but  then, 
as  Vicar  says,  what's  use  o'  sinking  money  ower  an  organ  wi* 
nobody  ti  play  her — and  choch  fabric  calling  for  repair  and  all. 
But  I'se  sometimes  had  idea  I'd  like  ti  try  and  mend  her  if 
Vicar'd  gie  me  permission." 

"You?" 

"Why,  I'd  a  fancy  that  way,  sir.'* 

"Mend  the  organ  all  by  yourself?'* 

"r  my  spare  time,  you'll  understand,  sir,'*  Fondie  modestly 
explained,  as  though  the  spareness  of  the  moments  to  be  de- 
voted to  the  task  reduced  the  merit  that  his  visitor  had  seemed 
to  see  in  the  undertaking.  The  young  gentleman,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ancient  instrument,  exhaled: 


F  O  N  D  I  E  i6s 

"How  glorious!"  as  though  the  breath  came  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart.    "I  would  love  to  help  you.    Would  you  let  me?" 

Fondle,  respectfully  avoiding  the  pitfall  of  the  request,  and 
troubled  at  the  threatening  enthusiasm  his  empty  dream  had 
awakened,  hastened  to  explain  the  chimerical  nature  of  it.  It 
was  but  fancy,  said  he.  He  misdooted  he  would  never  get  it 
done.  Idea  had  been  in  his  head  this  two  year,  off  and  on. 
Organ  would  all  be  to  take  to  pieces.  Pipes  would  be  to  clean. 
Reeds  to  fittle  up  and  voice.  Trackers  to  repair.  Maybe 
Vicar  wouldn't  allow  syke  as  him  to  meddle  with  it,  that  had 
only  fittled  up  a  few  accordions  for  farm  lads  and  looked  inside 
a  harmonium  or  two.  It's  true,  he  admitted,  that  he'd  had  the 
American  organ  to  bits  i*  spring,  and  glen  her  fresh  bellowses, 
but  she  didn't  belong,  as  ye  mud  say,  ti  sacred  building. 

The  flame  of  enthusiasm,  however,  kindled  in  the  boy's  bosom 
proved  less  easy  to  extinguish  than  to  create.  He  told  Fondle: 
"How  wonderful  you  are!  You  are  full  of  glorious  ideas. 
Where  do  you  get  them  from  ?  I  never  have  such  ideas."  And 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Fondle  Bassiemoor  found  himself 
gazed  at  with  eyes  of  unmitigated  admiration.  Nothing  would 
satisfy  their  owner  now  but  that  Fondle  should  instruct  him 
how  to  blow,  and,  having  instructed  him  in  this,  that  Fondle 
should  display  his  musical  ability;  and  having  displayed  his 
musical  ability  in  the  first  nine  of  "EXr.  Ezra  Blenkinson's  Melo- 
dious and  Progressive  Voluntaries,"  that  Fondle  should  ex- 
plain the  organ  and  its  principles,  and  teach  the  young  gentle- 
man how  to  apply  his  fingers  to  the  keys — all  of  which  Fondle 
did  in  a  spirit  compounded  of  pride,  of  humility,  of  misgivings, 
and  despondent  apprehension;  misdooting  gravely  at  the  end 
that  he  was  very  much  to  blame.  His  visitor  asked:  "What 
for?"  "For  having  glen  way  to  ye,  sir,"  Fondle  explained. 
"Fault's  mine.  I'se  jealous  I  should  *a  done  better  ti  dissuade 
you  fro'  first." 

"You're  not  to  blame  at  all,"  the  young  gentleman  contended 
loyally.     "I  asked  you,  and  you  couldn't  help  it.     If  anything 


166  F  O  N  D  I  E 

happens,  I  shall  tell  him  so."  He  inquired,  with  a  sudden  look 
of  anxiety,  concerning  the  passage  of  time — and  when  Fondie 
informed  him  that  it  was  now  nearing  five  o'clock,  could 
scarcely  credit  they  had  been  close  upon  two  hours  in  the  church. 
Thanking  Fondie  for  Fondie's  kindness  with  a  voice  of  such 
gratitude  as  to  bring  back  Fondie's  blushes,  he  said,  "I  must 
leave  you  at  once.  Will  you  forgive  me  for  running  away? 
You  know  why.  I'd  love  to  stop.  I'm  not  a  bit  tired.  When 
shall  you  be  here  again?'* 

Fondie  answered  dubiously:  "It*s  bad  ti  tell,  sir." 

"Do  you  mean  you'd  rather  not  tell  me?"  the  young  gentle- 
man inquired,  with  a  sudden  acuteness  of  perception  for  which 
Fondie  had  scarcely  bargained. 

"I  should  be  sorry  for  ye  ti  think  that,  sir.  What  I  meant 
was,  it  all  depends." 

"Depends  on  what?" 

"On  a  deal  o'  things,  sir.  Saturdays  is  only  day  Fse  likely 
ti  be  free  i'  afternoon.  And  sometimes  I'se  not  free  then.  And 
it  depends  on  who'd  blow  for  me  an'  all." 

"I  would  blow,"  said  the  boy  immediately,  and  then  added: 
"But  it  depends  in  my  case  too.  Will  you  try  and  come  next 
Saturday?     Do." 

Fondie's  countenance,  that  had  visibly  hesitated  at  the  first 
request,  succumbed  to  the  s^ond  briefer  but  more  persuasive 
appeal. 

"I'll  try,  sir,*'  said  he. 

"And  I'll  try,  too,"  the  boy  declared.  "I  may  not  be  able 
to  get  here.  If  I'm  not  here,  you'll  know  how  it  is,  won't  you  ? 
You'll  know  it's  not  because  I  don't  want  to  come,  but  because 
I  can't.    And  I  shall  be  thinking  about  you.     Good-bye." 

Fondie  was  frightened  that  the  young  gentleman  had  so  far 
lost  sight  of  what  was  suitable  to  his  station  as  to  be  on  the 
point  of  putting  out  his  hand,  and  hurriedly  busied  himself  with 
the  closing  of  the  organ.    "Good  day,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman  from  the  old  house  turned  on  his  heel 


F  O  N  D  I  E  167 

for  a  moment  to  watch  the  replacement  of  the  stops,  and  then 
sh'pped  quietly  from  the  chancel.  Fondle  performed  the  last 
offices  with  a  curious  sense  of  detachment  and  unreality,  as 
though  this  afternoon's  episode  and  his  present  self  pertained 
to  a  dream.  If  his  visitor  had  taken  away  a  mind  enriched  with 
memories  of  music,  Fondie's  own  head  held  less  of  this  than 
memories  of  a  soft  and  educated  voice,  whose  accents — like  all 
other  forms  of  beauty — disquieted  him  with  a  vague  desire  to 
make  them  his  own.  Even  the  humility  of  such  a  one  as  Fondie 
was  quickened  to  some  sort  of  resemblance  to  pride  by  the 
thought  that  the  grandson  of  a  gentleman  with  the  profile  of 
a  blood  horse,  who  wore  gaiters  on  his  feet,  had  found  him  not 
altogether  beneath  notice,  and  his  attainments  not  altogether 
the  fitting  food  of  scorn. 

"Nobbut  I  could  only  speak  like  him  .  .  ."  Fondie  thought 
longingly  to  himself  as  he  tucked  Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson  beneath 
his  arm,  when  the  very  voice  of  his  ambition  spoke  again. 

"...  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  her  this,  please" — 
"this"  was  "Lord  Ronald's  Crime ;  or,  The  Lxjst  Heir  of  Weir- 
chester" — "and  say  I  liked  ft  very  much?" 

"I  misdoot  .  .  ."  Fondie  said  when  he  realized  what  con- 
fronted him,  "she'll  be  better  pleased  to  tek  it  back  frev  your 
own  hand,  sir,  if  you  can  mek  it  convenient  ti  do  so." 

The  young  gentleman  inquired,  "Why?" 

Fondie  repeated,  "I  misdoot  she  would,  sir.  Otherwise  I'd 
gle  it  back  wi'  pleasure  so  far  as  trouble  gans." 

"I  thought  ...  I  may  not  see  her  for  some  time,"  the  young 
gentleman  explained.  "She  may  want  the  book  back.  I  don't 
know  when  we  shall  meet  again." 

"Why,  It's  same  case  wl*  me,  sir,"  Fondie  said.  "Not  that 
I  think  Miss  Blanche  will  be  wanting  book  back  very  par- 
ticular." 

"I  thought  you  were  always  seeing  her?"  the  young  gentle- 
man suggested. 

"Not  si  oft,  sir,"  Fondie  answered.     He  thought  there  was 


i68  FONDIE 

keenness  In  the  young  gentleman's  eye  when  he  asked  the 
question,  and  the  young  gentleman  fancied  there  was  a  tinge  of 
sadness  In  Fondle's  voice  when  Fondle  answered  It.  "But  she's 
plenty  o*  syke  books,  sir,"  Fondle  assured  him,  "You  will 
bide  a  bit,  till  you  chance  ti  see  her." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  sir."  And  Fondle  added,  after  a  brief 
tussle  with  his  conscience  and  the  Devil:  "I'll  ask  Miss  Blanche 
to  gle  a  look  round  at  choch  on  Saturday  If  you  wish,. sir;  nobbut 
you  don't  see  her  I'  meantime.  She'll  come  wl'  pleasure,  I  knaw. 
It  would  gratify  her  ti  shaw  ye  up  tower  and  discourse  wi'  ye 
awhile." 

The  young  gentleman  exclaimed.  In  the  first  flush  of  enthu- 
siasm, "Oh,  that  would  be  lovely!"  But  the  next  moment 
he  thought  less  favorably  of  Fondle's  magnanimous  proposition, 
saying  no,  he  was  much  obliged,  but  he  would  rather  Fondle 
did  not  tell  her  about  the  church.  It  might  spoil  the  music 
and  their  talk.  He  would  prefer  the  two  of  them  to  be  alone. 
It  was  a  tremendous  compliment,  the  most  tremendous  compli- 
ment that  any  young  gentleman  could  have  paid,  to  say  he 
preferred  the  company  of  the  wheelwright's  son  to  the  Vicar's 
daughter — even  with  the  prospect  of  a  personally  conducted 
excursion  to  the  church  roof. 

"Just  as  you  please,  sir,"  Fondle  assented.  ".  .  .  Is  there 
...  is  there  any  particular  message  you'd  like  me  ti  gie  her, 
sir;  and  If  I  speaks  truth  she'll  maybe  ask  question." 

The  young  gentleman  considered  for  awhile.  "Not  that  I 
can  think  of,"  he  said,  "except  about  the  book.  Tell  her  I 
read  It  through  three  times;  and  thank  her  very  much  for  me. 
Now  I  must  run.    Good-bye  again,  and  thank  you** 

"Good  day,  sir,"  said  Fondle. 

The  young  gentleman  from  the  old  house  took  to  his  heels 
and  left  the  sacred  building  at  a  run.  No  trace  of  him  was 
visible  when  Fondle  emerged  sedately  from  the  porch  Into  the 
fragrant  glory  of  the  June  sunlight. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  169 


XL 


TO  Whiwle,  Mersham  Hall  was  what  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  and  the  Tower  are  to  London,  drawing  visitors 
to  gaze  at  it  from  miles  around.  Conversationally  it 
formed  the  first  thing  we  turned  to  after  the  weather,  and 
when  strangers  admitted  they  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  this 
historic  place,  farmers'  wives  threw  up  their  hands  and  eye- 
brows and  said,  "Oh,  my  word  1"  with  almost  the  commiseration 
for  an  education  neglected. 

For  Mersham  Hall  had  been  tenantless  these  twenty  years 
or  more  when  first  I  knew  it.  "Wi'  a  mortgage"  (as  Dod's 
father  was  wont  to  say)  "twice  ower  ti  every  brick."  The 
water  in  the  broad  moat  that  flowed  under  the  bridge  before  the 
western  front  between  revetments  of  brick  had  the  stagnancy 
of  Dod's  father's  duck-pond  in  a  dry  summer,  and  smelt  little 
different.  Where,  once,  white  swans  had  arched  indolently 
splendid  necks  to  view  their  mirrored  stateliness,  domestic 
ducks  turned  upside  down  without  the  least  compunction  in 
the  water,  to  disturb  all  that  was  worst  in  it  and  litter  the 
scummy  surface  wih  discarded  feathers.  The  great  house- 
clock  in  its  turret  above  the  portico  was  as  handless  as  the  crip- 
ple mendicant  with  the  tin  mug  round  his  neck,  who  stood  in 
Hunmouth  High  Street  on  market  days,  turning  "Rock  of  Ages" 
with  a  wrist;  and  the  pigeons  and  other  birds  haunting  the 
turret  had  so  thickly  lined  the  dial  of  the  clock  that  the  hours 
of  twelve  and  six  were  smeared  out  of  sight.  The  peacocks, 
too,  that  raised  their  proud  cries  when  rain  portended  and  paced 
their  stately  pavans  upon  the  terrace,  and  came  in  all  their 
feathered  pride  to  table  at  Christmas,  along  with  the  tusked 
boar's  head  and  those  traditional  platters  of  pomp  and  rejoicing 
with  which  the  mighty  celebrate  the  festival — all  these  were 
things  of  the  past;  mere  fading  echoes  of  the  accents  of  splen- 
dor with  which  the  last  real  owner  had  proclaimed  his  greatness 


170  F  O  N  D  I  E 

to  the  world  and  expended  all  his  pride  and  patrimony  in  the 
expression  of  it. 

As  a  boy,  Dod's  father  knew  him  well  by  sight,  the  great  Sir 
Lancelot;  and  had  drawn  his  heels  together  in  the  roadway 
with  a  click,  and  doffed  his  cap  as  the  schoolmaster  taught  him, 
times  out  of  number  when  the  baronet  passed  by.  In  his  telling, 
the  act  came  to  acquire  even  a  dignity  of  its  own,  and  the  hand 
that  had  doffed  Dod's  father's  cap  to  the  actual  master  of  the 
Mersham  acres  seemed  now,  in  some  wise,  heritor  of  a  portion 
of  the  dead  man's  greatness.  A  little  shabby,  undistinguished 
man  in  his  own  person,  he  appears  to  have  been,  by  all  accounts, 
imbued  with  the  opinion  that  his  acres  sufficiently  dressed  him 
and  that  the  owner  of  so  many  needed  no  other  habiliment  than 
his  name  and  state,  of  which  he  contributed  the  meanest  feature. 
Whilst  his  servants  trembled  beneath  a  rule  as  inexorable  as 
nature's  own,  and  a  footman  (it  is  said)  would  have  been  dis- 
missed at  a  moment's  notice  without  a  character  for  a  crease 
in  the  calf  of  his  white  stocking,  the  baronet  drew  distinction 
from  a  lofty  contempt  of  the  outward  forms  to  which  his  scrap- 
ing menials  subscribed,  and  appreciated  no  finer  compliment  than 
to  be  mistaken  for  a  tramp  or  road-mender  upon  his  own  estate ; 
to  which  laudable  end  he  walked  about  in  a  dingy  blunt- 
crowned  hat  and  a  faded  covert  coat,  worn  sleeveless  and  tied 
under  his  chin,  that  had  been  the  despair  of  a  whole  succession 
of  gentlemen's  gentlemen. 

But  his  passion  was  horses  and  all  that  pertained  to  them. 
Dod's  father  has  told  me,  times  innumerable,  how  many  horses 
put  their  noses  to  the  crib  in  the  Mersham  stables,  and  how 
much  hay  and  corn  they  ground  up  in  a  week;  and  how  many 
grooms  there  were  to  look  after  them.  But  I  was  never  strong 
in  arithmetic,  and  I  always  forgot  the  figures  in  the  task  of 
expressing  suitable  surprise;  mixing  up  the  horses  with  the 
grooms,  and  the  grooms  with  tons  of  hay  and  quarters  of  corn, 
and  the  hay  and  corn  with  the  loose  boxes,  and  the  loose  boxes 
with  the  total  in  rugs  and  harness.     Nevertheless,  the  figures 


FONDIE  171 

were  prodigious.  Dod's  father  used  to  take  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth  every  time  in  telling  them,  and  if  they  could  astonish 
Dod's  father  I  felt  I  was  safe  in  allowing  them  to  astonish  me. 
For  Dod's  father  had  six  huge  horses  in  the  capacious  dimness 
of  his  stable,  that  filled  the  stable  with  a  rumbling  diapason 
as  of  millstones  when  they  ground  their  food,  and  their  big  warm 
bodies  made  the  stable  the  most  comfortable  place  in  the  world 
to  sit  in  in  cold  weather.  But  Dod's  father  scouted  the  bare 
idea  of  comparison,  and  said:  "Thoo  dizn't  know  what  thoo's 
talking  aboot !"  Each  of  the  Mersham  horses  had  a  bath-sponge 
and  towel  to  itself,  and  a  groom ;  and  each  groom  had  an  under- 
groom  to  kick  and  lay  the  blame  on;  and  each  under-groom 
had  a  stable-lad  to  kick  in  turn,  or  fling  the  stable  besom  at. 
Four-in-hand  was  Sir  Lancelot's  hobby.  His  greatness  stooped 
to  drive  nothing  less.  There  were  half  a  dozen  coaches  in  the 
Mersham  coach-house,  with  panels  bright  as  glass  and  naves 
of  silver;  and  fours  of  nearly  every  color  to  put  in  them — 
black,  brown,  bay,  roan,  piebald,  skewbald,  cream  and  white, 
in  variety  sufficient  to  rejoice  the  soul  of  a  circus  propri- 
etor. 

By  six  in  the  morning,  and  on  midsummer  mornings  much 
earlier,  Sir  Lancelot  swallowed  his  basin  of  bread  and  milk  that 
was  (woe  betide  its  belated  bringer!)  brought  up  to  his  dress- 
ing-room. But  a  few  minutes  after,  his  first  oath  was  heard 
in  the  stable  court.  The  sound  of  his  morning  cough  caused 
the  grooms  to  run  about  the  yard  after  imaginary  duties  as 
though  they  chased  a  hare,  and  there  was  no  cessation  of  ac- 
tivity until  he  drove  out  of  the  stable  gates.  All  day  long, 
allowing  the  briefest  intervals  for  meals,  the  coach  went  rum- 
bling about  the  Mersham  roads,  with  flunkeys  stuck  all  over  it 
as  thick  as  flies  on  a  treacle-paper.  Alternate  couples  dropped 
to  earth  at  every  gatestead — outspeeding  the  horses  so  that 
there  should  be  no  stoppage  in  their  stride,  and  swinging  up  to 
their  place  again  like  clockwork  as  the  coach  rolled  by.  Sir 
Lancelot  would  train  his  steeds  down  the  narrowest  lanes  and 
12 


172  FONDIE 

round  the  sharpest  corners;  driving  them  in  and  out  of  his 
tenants*  stockyards  to  practice  sharp  turns  round  the  pikes  and 
steddles — to  the  tenantry's  infinite  and  respectful  inconvenience 
in  harvest  time.  If  he  fetched  a  gatepost  off,  the  Mersham 
joiner  reset  it  that  day;  if  the  wheel  of  the  coach  came  (as 
not  infrequently  happened)  to  grief,  the  baronet  cursed  it  and 
changed  his  coach.  With  six  coaches  to  draw  upon,  it  was 
but  rarely  that  he  had  not  one,  at  least,  in  running  order.  My 
lady,  when  she  still  lived  with  her  husband,  and  had  not  yet 
come  to  the  crossways  with  him  under  a  deed  of  separation — 
though  occupying  her  own  wing  of  the  hall,  and  partaking  of 
her  own  meals  in  her  own  apartments — my  lady  drove  out 
when  she  deigned  to  take  the  common  air,  in  an  open  carriage 
with  four  horses  and  outriders,  who  bobbed  violently  up  and 
down  in  the  saddle  as  though  the  saddle  were  red-hot;  and  she 
was  one  of  the  last  in  this  part  of  the  world  to  retain  the  serv- 
ices of  runners,  whose  duty  was  to  keep  up  with  her  ladyship's 
carriage  in  tunics  far  too  tight  for  them.  By  her  side,  on  such 
journeyings,  it  was  her  custom  to  take  a  silk-lined  satchel  con- 
taining small  pieces  of  silver  currency,  wrapped  up  in  tissue 
paper  so  as  not  to  soil  her  gloves,  that  she  dropped  from  time 
to  time  over  the  carriage  panels  when  she  passed  groups  of 
curtseying  children  or  a  mother  holding  up  some  recent  baby 
by  a  cottage  door.  After  the  deed  of  separation  her  ladyship 
left  Mersham  in  a  chariot  as  closely  shuttered  as  if  it  held  a 
fever  patient,  and  lived  the  rest  of  her  life  abroad.  She  was 
much  missed  by  the  Mersham  children,  but  her  absence  caused 
no  diminution  in  the  scale  of  the  Mersham  magnificence.  Up- 
wards of  forty  servants  fattened  their  legs  beneath  the  baronet's 
table;  each  (as  Dod's  father  said)  with  another  servant  to  wait 
on  him.  An  ox  went  no  way  among  this  multitude  of  mouths, 
the  diet  below  stairs  being  so  unstinted  that  twelve  months  of  it 
were  sufficient  to  thicken  the  breathing  of  the  thinnest  man- 
servant alive  and  double  the  diameter  of  a  footman's  calf. 
Footmen  fed  up  to  butlers  in  no  time,  and  stable-lads  were 


FONDIE  173 

full-blown  coachmen  before  this  fatal  tendency  could  be  checked, 
or  apoplexy  had  cleared  a  box  seat  for  them. 

Everything  at  Mersham  had  to  be  enormously  in  excess  of 
human  requirements:  more  dogs  than  could  be  exercised,  more 
horses  than  could  be  ridden,  more  rooms  than  could  be  lived 
in,  more  servants  than  employment  could  possibly  be  found 
for.  The  place  buzzed  with  the  useless  activities  of  magnificent 
drones,  whose  sole  function  was  to  produce  flesh  and  splendor 
and  fill  the  mansion  with  that  fine  atmosphere  of  subjugated 
deference  so  essential  to  the  constitution  of  a  stately  home. 
The  very  air  seemed  menialized,  rendered  lukewarm  by  foot- 
men's legs,  and  disciplined  by  their  breathing  into  a  condition 
of  tepid  fitness  for  the  lungs  of  the  august.  Even  the  upkeep 
of  Sir  Lancelot's  ladies  was  maintained  upon  the  same  super- 
fluously lavish  scale.  There  were  three  of  them  in  Hunmouth 
alone  and  two  in  Beeminster,  and  not  a  few  were  suspected  in 
parishes  round  about  the  hall.  And  though  the  baronet  might 
visit  them  in  his  covert  coat  and  blunt-crowned  hat  not  once 
a  quarter  during  the  hunting  season,  their  services  and  stipend 
ceased  the  same  moment  they  were  not  at  home  to  receive  his 
call. 

With  Sir  Lancelot's  death  the  old  period  of  splendor  passed 
away,  and  his  funeral  constituted  the  last  act  in  Mersham 
magnificence.  Half  the  county  pursued  his  body  to  the  vault 
as  closely  as  if  he  had  been  a  fox.  All  the  public  bodies,  so- 
cieties, hunts,  manors,  wapentakes,  councils,  charities,  commis- 
sions, and  parishes  were  represented — many  by  floral  tributes  of 
massive  splendor  and  superb  chastity.  Every  beneficed  clergy- 
man for  miles  around  was  present,  including  sufficient  canons 
to  withstand  a  siege,  in  order  to  pay  tribute  to  the  deceased 
baronet's  virtues  and  deduce  for  the  use  of  parishioners  next 
Sunday  a  Christian  lesson  from  his  exemplary  life  and  death. 

And  meanwhile  the  mortgagees  were  busy.  Legal-faced 
gentlemen  In  black  silk  hats  and  shaven  clerks  with  faces  as 
sharp  as  a  wood  feller's  axe  came  and  went  by  every  train.    The 


174  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Mersham  estate  began  to  labor  visibly  In  deep  waters  like  a 
dismasted  and  foundering  ship.  All  the  fleshy  gentlemen  went, 
and  the  corpulent  coachmen  and  belted  grooms,  and  the  mag- 
nificence of  which  they  had  formed  a  corporate  and  impressive 
part  melted  fast  like  summer  snow.  Land  came  under  the 
hammer.  Trees  were  felled.  Hounds  and  horses  changed 
hands.  The  young  baronet,  who  had  taken  his  mother's  side 
in  the  domestic  estrangement,  found  himself  heir  only  to  litiga- 
tion and  motions  in  Chancery,  and  died  abroad  within  two 
years  of  his  father's  death — some  said  of  chagrin.  His  body 
was  not  even  brought  to  Mershano — possibly  because  an  estate 
so  encumbered  could  not  rise  to  any  second  obsequies  worth 
the  name  in  such  a  trifling  space  of  time. 

His  demise  extinguished  the  last  flickering  spark  of  Mer- 
sham's  vital  magnificence.  Litigation  furnished  a  successor  to 
the  encumbered  acres  and  added  a  further  charge  upon  them, 
but  the  claimant  died  before  judgment  was  pronounced  in  his 
favor,  and  Chancery  plucked  up  heart  again.  Litigation  was 
resumed.  Echoes  of  the  distant  conflict,  like  mutterings  of 
battle  waged  afar,  reached  Mersham  from  the  law  courts, 
where  the  name  of  Mersham  figured  perpetually  in  the  Cause 
Lists,  and  wigged  counsel  droning  dismally  In  the  ears  of  som- 
nolent judges  lived  like  fighting-cocks  upon  the  subject  of  suc- 
cession to  the  Mersham  acres.  It  was  known  at  last,  however 
— even  in  Mersham — that  the  baronetcy  had  lapsed,  and  that 
the  new  heir  brought  neither  means  nor  title  to  the  rehabilita- 
tion of  the  old  home. 

And  the  succession  was  more  nominal  than  real,  for  he  took 
up  no  residence  at  Mersham.  Men  who  knew  said  it  would 
need  all  the  new  squire's  lifetime  to  pay  off  the  mortgages ;  and 
men  who  knew  better  said,  "Aye,  and  more."  For  years  the 
hall  molded  as  its  once  august  master  had  left  it,  without 
ministration  from  either  painter,  bricklayer,  carpenter,  or 
plumber,  and  fell  Into  an  incredible  state  of  neglect.  Birds 
gained  ingress  to  the  rooms  through  chimneys  and  broken  win- 


FONDIE  I7S 

dows.  Robins  rested  on  gilded  picture-frames  in  the  gallery, 
and  starlings  fed  their  young  in  the  debris-littered  hangings  of 
state  beds. 

A  caretaker,  situate  with  his  wife  in  the  desolate  servants* 
wing,  represented  all  that  remained  of  the  house's  fallen  state; 
and  reaped  so  rich  a  harvest  through  displaying  its  inward 
portions  to  the  curious — ^who  frequented  the  place  with  picnic- 
baskets  in  numbers  during  summer — that  he  was  able  to  take 
a  licensed  house  in  Hunmouth  with  the  proceeds  the  moment 
this  source  of  revenue  was  prohibited,  declaring  in  a  spirit  of 
laudable  independence  that  he  didn't  care  for  squire,  agents, 
lawyer,  nor  none  of  them,  and  wouldn't  let  nobody  living  in- 
terfere with  him,  nor  teach  him  his  business;  and  if  that  was 
going  to  be  the  rule  (which  it  was)  he  would  "go"  (which  he 
did),  and  they  must  look  after  things  theirselves — which  they 
forthwith  proceeded  to  do;  repairing,  as  the  deplenished  funds 
permitted,  the  broken  windows  and  the  defective  spouting,  and 
contesting  the  internal  ravages  a  room  at  a  time. 

XLII 

SOMEWHERE  about  the  middle  of  the  following  week 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  received  a  letter.  In  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor's  life  this  was  an  event.  Letters  were  not  habitual 
with  him,  even  in  the  way  of  business,  for  Whivvle  had  re- 
course much  more  largely  to  the  spoken  word  than  the  written 
symbol  in  its  transactions,  and  urgent  messages  from  no  farther 
off  than  the  next  parish  reached  the  wheelwright's  yard  by 
transmission  through  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  mouths,  taking 
anything  from  twenty-four  hours  to  a  week  in  transit,  and  even 
touching  Hunmouth  market  on  the  way;  going  in  by  one  carrier 
along  with  the  butter  and  eggs  and  coming  out  by  another 
with  the  linseed  cake  and  groceries. 

Blanche's  brother  Bullocky  brought  the  letter.  Having 
whistled    "Phwt!"    from   the   yard-end   with   two   fingers,   he 


176  FOND  IE 

followed  the  whistle  into  the  yard — where  neither  it  nor  he,  in 
the  wheelwright's  opinion,  was  wanted — and  asked  the  wheel- 
wright, whom  the  whistle  and  subsequent  footsteps  had  brought 
to  the  kitchen  door,  "Where's  Fondle?"  without  showing  the 
least  discomposure  at  sight  of  the  wheelwright's  beard;  a  re- 
quest that  the  wheelwright  answered  by  demanding,  "Who's 
thoo  whistling  after?     Dog?" 

"Is  he  i'  warkshop?"  the  Bullocky  inquired,  undeterred  by 
the  rebuke  and  the  stern  displeasure  seated  on  the  wheelwright's 
bristling  beard  and  brow.  For  sole  answer  the  wheelwright 
retired  into  the  kitchen  and  pushed  to  the  kitchen  door,  but  the 
sound  of  voices  had  already  drawn  Fondle  from  the  workshop 
with  a  doweling-bit  In  his  hand.  His  reception  of  the  Vicar's 
son  was  in  marked  contrast  to  that  extended  by  his  parent. 
He  bade  the  visitor  "Good  day.  Master  Allck,"  in  a  voice  of 
such  politeness  that  the  kitchen  door  reopened  violently  of  a 
sudden  and  the  wheelwright's  voice  demanded: 

"Whoo's  thoo  Mastering?  Let  folk  master  their  manners 
fost,  before  thoo  Masters  them." 

".  .  .  I'se  gotten  summut  for  thee,  Fondle  Basslemoor,"  the 
Vicar's  son  announced,  when  the  effect  of  this  proclamation  had 
passed  away  and  the  kitchen  door  had  been  closed  again.  Fon- 
dle tendered  a  pained  and  hurried  apology  for  his  sire's  disrespect. 

"I  beg  ye'U  think  no  more  aboot  it,  Master  Alick.  It's  my 
feythur's  way.  He's  not  si  young  as  he  was.  He  means  nowt 
by  It.  Did  I  understand  ye  to  say  you'd  brought  me  some- 
thing?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  Bullocky,  without  making  any  attempt  to 
disclose  the  nature  of  the  thing  brought.  "What'll  thoo  gie 
me  for  it?" 

"Why,  it  depends  upon  what  it  is,  Master  Alick,"  Fondle 
answered.  "I  misdoot  it  wean't  be  worth  a  deal  if  It's  meant 
for  me." 

"It's  a  letter  an'  all,"  the  Bullocky  informed  him.  "Oor 
lass  gled  it  me  ti  bring  thee." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  177 

The  mention  of  "oor  lass"  was  strategical  on  the  Bullocky's 
part,  and  had  its  prompt  effect. 

"If  a  penny's  onny  use  to  ye,  sir,"  Fondie  said,  "ye're  welcome 
tiv  it." 

"Mek  it  two,"  said  the  Vicar's  son. 

"I  misdoot  tuppence  is  a  large  sum  ti  gie  for  a  letter  that 
belongs  me,  sir,"  Fondie  suggested,  albeit  respectfully. 

"Who  says  it  belongs  thee?"  the  Bullocky  demanded.  "It 
dizn't  belong  thee  yet.  And  nobbut  thoo  gies  me  tuppence 
it  wean't.  I  s'll  tek  letter  back  tiv  oor  lass — or  tear  it  up. 
Mebbe  I  s'll  tear  it  up.  It  wouldn't  be  fost.  She  shouldn't  'a 
gien  it  me." 

The  threat  of  such  destruction  sent  Fondie's  fingers  into  his 
right-hand  pocket  without  delay. 

"Why  .  .  .  I'se  much  obliged  ti  ye  for  bringing  it,  Master 
Alexis,"  he  said,  and  the  stipulated  coppers  crossed  with  a 
most  crumpled,  soiled,  and  generally  unhygienic  envelope  that 
the  Bullocky  drew  out  of  his  breast  pocket  and  relinquished 
the  moment  his  right  hand  made  sure  of  Fondie's  pennies. 

"I  knaw  who  letter's  frev,"  he  vouchsafed,  as  soon  as  the 
exchange  was  duly  effected.  "It's  frev  yon  lad  at  aud  house. 
He  gied  it  Blanche  last  Friday  for  thee.  She  forgot  it  o'  Sun- 
day." And  his  curiosity  being  awakened  now  that  acquisitive- 
ness was  satisfied,  he  demanded,  "What's  it  aboot?  Open  it 
and  read  what  he  says." 

But  Fondie's  sense  of  honor  stood  firm  at  this. 

"I  misdoot  I'se  no  right  to  do  that.  Master  Aleck,"  he  said. 
"Letter  mud  be  private." 

"Thoo  needn't  bother,"  the  Bullocky  retorted.  "Oor  lass 
opened  it.     I'se  read  all  there  is." 

"I  misdoot  you're  speaking  waggishly.  Master  Aleck,"  Fon- 
die said.  "I  hope  I  knaw  ye  better  than  ti  fear  ye'd  do  any 
syke  thing." 

"Do  you!"  cried  the  Bullocky.  "Thoo  wait  while  next 
time.     That's  all."     And  went  off,  kicking  the  wheelwright's 


178  FONDIE 

gravel  noisily  with  both  feet  and  whistling  offensively  as  he 
left.  Fondie,  returning  to  the  pine-scented  workshop,  read 
the  letter  by  the  bench.  It  was  addressed  in  a  most  precise  and 
level  hand  to  Mr.  Bassiemoor,  Jun.,  and  was  penned  with  such 
faultless  legibility  inside  that  Fondle  could  peruse  every  word 
at  first  sight. 

"Dear  Mr.  Bassiemoor,"  the  letter  ran. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Fondie — either  by  word 
of  mouth  or  stroke  of  pen — ^had  ever  been  addressed  as  Mr. 
Bassiemoor.  The  experience  was  so  unusual,  and — despite  its 
formality — so  pleasant,  that  he  lingered  over  it,  and  read  this 
prefatory  part  of  the  missive  a  second  time  to  extract  the  full 
flavor  from  it,  before  proceeding.     After  all  .  .  . 

Dear  Mr.  Bassiemoor  [Fondie  began  again] : 
It  is  with  deep  regret  I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  come  to  the  church  on  Saturday  as  arranged,  so 
please  do  not  expect  me.     I  have  to  go  somewhere  with  my 
grandfather  that  afternoon. 

*'It  is  a  great  disappointment  to  me,  for  I  had  been  looking 
forward  so  much  to  seeing  you  again.  Now  I  don't  know 
when  it  will  be.     I  hope  soon. 

Trusting  you  are  well, 

I  remain,  yours  sincerely, 

L.  G.  D'A.  Mersham. 
P.  S.     I  shall  be  thinking  of  you  on  Saturday.     I  hope  you 
will  find  someone  to  blow  for  vou. 


The  letter  went  Into  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  breast  pocket- 
rather  went  In  and  out  of  it — ^as  restlessly  as  Jarge  Amery  goes 
in  and  out  of  the  White  Cow  in  the  course  of  a  droughty 
afternoon.  Every  now  and  then  Fondie  would  regale  himself 
with  the  sight  of  its  polite  and  lucid  penmanship,  till  the  wheel- 
wright, testily  conscious  of  the  existence  of  some  secret  element 
in  the  air  about  him,  cried  exasperatedly  at  last:  "What's 
thoo  gotten?  Is  it  owt  ti  eat?  Thoo  keeps  munching  at  it 
strangelins  behind  thy  coat." 


F  O  N  D  I  E 


179 


At  night  Fondle  transferred  the  precious  document  to  the 
private  box  that  lay  by  his  bedhead;  all  wall-papered  to  match 
the  room,  and  containing  nothing  private  and  particular,  despite 
its  key  and  padlock.  Once  in  bed,  Fondie  Bassiemoor  struck  a 
match  and  read  the  admired  letter  yet  again.  In  some  subtle 
and  inexplicable  way  it  seemed  to  be  associated  with  his  thoughts 
of  Blanche.  It  was  as  though  some  new  current  had  flowed 
into  his  life,  filling  the  channel  of  his  aspirations  and  buoying 
his  hopes.  Only  to  be  able  to  write  a  letter  like  this!  To  be 
sure  of  his  pen  and  of  his  words!  To  speak  and  act  like  the 
writer  of  it !  To  be  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable !  To  be 
worthy  of  all  the  confidence  reposed  in  him!  To  rise  to  that 
lighcr  life  in  which  is  humble  faith  believed,  through  the 
.xirifying  of  his  self  and  the  shedding  of  all  errors  and  grosser 
particles!  To  deserve,  if  never  to  attain!  And  to  merit — 
though  unsuccessful — this  hum.ble  epitaph  at  least  upon  his 
tomb: 

He  did  his  Best. 


XLIII 

FOR  the  space  of  a  fortnight  or  thereabouts  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor saw  nothing  of  the  young  gentleman  from  the 
aud  hoose,  and  scarcely  more  of  the  Vicar's  daughter. 
The  Anniversary  season  being  now  well  set  in,  and  the  Kiss- 
ing Ring  at  its  height,  Blanche  Bellwood  had  too  many  calls 
upon  her  time  and  attractions  in  other  quarters  to  give  much 
thought  to  Fondie,  whom  she  regarded  merely  as  a  set-by  for 
wet  weather  or  social  dog-days;  taking  him  up  as  she  would 
even  take  up  her  music  on  those  occasions  when  the  weather 
was  too  sickening  for  any  other  form  of  exercise.  With  the 
Anniversaries  and  Kissing  Ring  season,  too,  Blanche  Bellwood 
began  to  wear  on  weekdays  her  Sunday  frock  of  the  summer 
before,   and  the  first  of  the  strange  bicyclists  began   to   ride 


i8o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

through  Whiwle,  asking  their  way,  and  ringing  their  bells  at 
odd  lane-ends  without  apparent  cause.  Also  Blanche  Bellwood 
developed  acute  interest  in  the  coming  of  the  post,  and  would 
even  run  out  to  meet  the  postman  as  soon  as  the  gate  clicked. 
From  this  time  onward,  unfamiliar  worshippers — possessed  of 
not  the  least  aptitude  for  hymns — might  be  expected  at  church 
on  Sunday,  though  August  and  early  September  were  the 
chief  months,  which  appeared  to  coincide  generally  with  the 
school  vacation. 

For  Fondie,  too,  the  season  brought  its  special  obligations  in 
respect  of  hay-reapers  and  wagons,  that  drew  up  in  the  road- 
way before  the  signboard  as  many  as  three  deep,  whilst  more 
than  that  number  cumbered  the  yard  on  days  when  cutting  was 
at  a  standstill,  for  the  firm  of  J.  Bassiemoor  &  Son  had  a 
reputation  in  excess  of  local  among  implements  of  all  sorts, 
and  there  were  not  a  few  farmers  who  would  sooner  send 
their  repairs  six  miles  or  over  to  the  Whiwle  yard  than  com- 
mit them  to  the  care  of  more  proximate  and  less  satisfactory 
smiths — a  state  of  things  which,  though  very  complimentary  to 
the  Bassiemoor  firm,  occasioned  some  discontent  in  sundry 
quarters,  where  it  was  averred  that  Joe  Bassiemoor  begrudged 
folk  their  living,  and  would  take  the  bread  and  jam  out  of  a 
bairn's  mouth  if  he  could  do  it  without  being  seen. 

The  old  man  was  acting  well  up  to  this  tradition  one  after- 
noon toward  the  end  of  the  second  week,  sedulously  picking 
through  the  rusty  hoops  and  scraps  of  iron  with  which  one 
side  of  the  yard  was  littered  in  quest  of  a  bolt  of  a  certain  size 
that  his  own  hands  had  extracted  from  a  set  of  old  shelvings 
and  thrown  there  not  eighteen  months  before,  when  the  young 
gentleman  from  the  aud  hoose  came  into  the  yard  with  his 
quick  and  slightly  nervous  step  and,  addressing  the  patched 
blue  seat  of  the  wheelwright's  trousers  (which  was  the  only 
portion  of  the  wheelwright  paying  him  the  least  attention  at 
the  moment),  asked  if  "Mr.  Bassiemoor"  were  at  home. 

The  wheelwright  did  not  immediately  cease   his  exertions. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  i8i 

but  continued  to  grope  among  the  bits  of  old  iron,  considering 
this  and  weighing  that,  and  gazing  fixedly  at  the  other  as 
though  dark  memories  of  fifty  3^ears  ago  had  been  brought 
under  review.  Finally  he  smote  the  palms  of  his  hands  to- 
gether, and  turned  upon  the  young  gentleman  of  the  aud 
hoose  with  the  brief  acknowledgment,  "Aje.     He  is." 

The  young  gentleman  asked:  "May  I  speak  to  him,  please?" 

"You're  speakin'  tiv  him  noo,"  the  wheelwright  rejoined. 

The  young  gentleman,  visibly  taken  back  by  the  unexpected 
statement,  begged  the  speaker's  pardon. 

"I  meant  the  other  Mr.  Bassiemoor,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Bassie- 
moor.  Junior."  By  his  lips,  too,  it  appeared  he  was  imparting 
something  else  of  a  more  or  less  apologetic  nature,  but  the 
wheelwright  paid  no  heed  to  this. 

There  was  no  other  Mr.  Bassiemoor  (said  he)  that  he  knew 
on — unless  the  visitor  meant  Fondie.  The  young  gentleman 
answered  that  he  did,  and  asked  (apparently  for  politeness* 
sake)  if  Fondie  were  at  home. 

"If  he  ought  ti  be  onnyweers  else,  he  will  be,"  the  wheel- 
wright uttered  darkly,  and  barked  "Fondie!"  through  his 
beard — that  had  rusty  nails  and  iron  filings  entangled  in  it, 
and  a  wax  vesta — and  added  "Thoo's  wanted !"  when  Fondie 
appeared  at  the  workshop  door.  With  which  he  resumed 
his  work  upon  the  scrap-heap,  muttering:  "There's  gotten 
ti  be  a  strange  deal  of  misters  and  masters  nowadays.  Parson' 
son  nobbut  a  while  back;  an'  noo  it's  thoo.  Whiwle  wean't 
be  big  eneaf  ti  hod  'em  all  soon." 

The  young  gentleman  (as  he  made  haste  to  explain  to  Fon- 
die) had  not  come  to  stop. 

"Folk  never  diz !"  muttered  the  wheelwright  into  his  beard. 
"Nobbut  they've  just  a  minute  ti  spare  they'll  bide  upon  spot 
all  day." 

He  had  no  time  to  spend.  By  rights  (said  he)  he  ought  not 
to  be  there.  He  had  been  sent  to  purchase  a  bottle  of  ink  under 
strict  injunctions  to  return  without  delay.     But  he  had   run 


i82  FONDIE 

most  of  the  way  so  that  he  might  have  a  few  minutes  with  Mr. 
Bassiemoor  and  say  how  sorry  he  was  not  to  have  seen  him  on 
Saturday,  and  he  would  run  most  of  the  way  back  again.  "And 
I  shall  do  what  Blanche  does,"  he  declared  recklessly.  "I 
shall  say  I  tried  the  wrong  shops  and  they  kept  me  waiting. 
I  don't  care.  Blanche  doesn't.  What  can  he  do  if  he  finds 
out?" 

But  for  the  fact  that  they  were  now  beyond  the  wheel- 
wright's earshot,  the  wheelwright's  opinion  upon  this  fine  point 
would  have  been  worth  having.  Fondie,  fingering  the  blade  of 
a  chisel  with  self-depreciatory  fingers,  as  though  confessing 
himself  but  an  imperfect  performer  upon  the  instrument,  mis- 
dooted  that  it  was  bad  ti  tell,  and  moreover  "not  for  sykc  as  me 
ti  say,  sir."  The  young  gentleman  did  not  pursue  the  moral 
issues  of  the  question. 

"I  saw  Blanche,"  he  informed  Fondie.  "Perhaps  she  told 
you." 

Fondie,  with  his  customary  discretion,  said :  "I'se  fit  ti  think 
Miss  Blanche  named  it,  sir." 

"...  She  happened  to  be  passing  the  gate,"  the  young 
gentleman  continued,  and  Fondie  did  not  even  blink  with  the 
force  of  this  curious  coincidence.  "It  was  just  after  I  had 
written  the  letter.  I  meant  to  bring  it  round  to  you  myself  and 
leave  it  if  you  were  not  at  home.  I  felt  sure  he  was  asleep.'* 
The  young  gentleman  paused  at  this  stage  of  the  narrative  with 
an  eye  on  Fondie  that  seemed  as  though  desirous  of  eliciting 
some  sign ;  but  Fondie  modestly  fingered  the  blade  of  the  chisel, 
and  contributed  nothing  more  definite  than  a  respectful  "In- 
deed, sir!"  void  of  any  surprise  or  presumptuous  inquiry. 

"...  Only  Blanche  said,"  the  narrator  proceeded, 
"Blanche  said,  what  was  the  use?  She  would  give  you  the  let- 
ter if  I  liked.  She  asked  me  to  come  along  with  her  instead." 
Here  the  young  gentleman's  voice  and  eyes  suggested  a  certain 
lapse  of  time.  "...  We  went  as  far  as  the  pond.  Now  I 
know  where  it  Is.  .  .  .  Did  she  give  you  the  letter?" 


F  O  N  D  I  E  183 

Fondie  said,  with  sudden  contrition :  "I  ought  tiv  a*  thanked 
you  for  it  wi'oot  waiting  ti  be  asked,  sir,  if  my  manners  was 
what  they  should  'a  been.  I'se  jealous  I  wasn't  worth  trouble 
o'  writing  ti,  sir;  and  thank  you." 

The  young  gentleman  said:  "I  wanted  to  write  to  you.  I 
liked  doing  it.     Did  Blanche  give  it  you  in  time?" 

Remembrance  of  the  BuUocky  and  the  episode  of  the  belated 
epistle  bought  from  him  at  a  price  caused  Fondie  to  finger  his 
chisel  uneasily,  as  if  he  had  discovered  a  flaw  in  it  by  the  sense 
of  touch,  but  he  answered  with  fitting  gratitude: 

"In  very  nice  time,  thank  you." 

Perhaps  the  young  gentleman  was  possessed  already  of  mis- 
givings in  regard  to  the  letter's  delivery.  Perhaps,  also,  he  had 
arrived  at  some  proficiency  in  his  knowledge  of  Fondie's  nature, 
for  he  added :  "Did  she  give  it  you  before  you  went  to  church 
on  Saturday?" 

"Why  .  .  .  not  exactly  before,  sir,"  Fondie  admitted,  "but 
I  got  it  i'  good  time  after." 

"How  long  after?" 

"Why  .  .  .  about  a  couple  o'  days,  sir,  si  far  as  my  memory 
sarves  me." 

"Did  Blanche  give  it  you  herself?" 

"She  sent  Master  Aleck  wi'  it,  sir,"  Fondie  answered.  But 
he  did  not  divulge  the  price  paid  for  it,  and  the  young  gentle- 
man did  not  ask.  He  merely  sealed  this  part  of  his  inquiry 
with  a  dubitative  "Oh!" 

"I'se  read  letter  a  deal  o'  times,"  Fondie  confided,  dropping 
his  voice  to  a  level  that  would  not  have  been  out  of  place  in  an 
expression  of  condolence.  "It's  been  a  great  comfort  ti  me, 
sir.  I  was  only  looking  at  her  this  morning,  Onnybody 
couldn't  wish  ti  read  a  better  wrote  or  beautiful-worded  letter." 

The  young  gentleman  was  prompt  to  assure  Fondie  that  this 
admired  letter  had  been  the  product  of  no  particular  pains. 
As  soon  as  he  knew  that  there  would  be  no  church  for  him  on 
Saturday  he  had  just  sat  down  and  written  it.     And  he  had 


i84  F  O  N  D  I  E 

to  write  very  quickly,  because  of  Him.  The  Third  Personal 
Pronoun  Singular  (it  seemed)  had  been  most  troublesome  and 
active  of  late.  Blanche  said  her  father  was  the  same.  The 
mention  of  fathers  caused  the  young  gentleman  to  cast  a  furtive 
eye  upon  the  figure  of  the  wheelwright,  still  picking  and  sifting, 
amid  the  debris  of  old  iron,  and  drop  his  voice  over  the  awed 
query,  "What's  your  father  like?" 

Fondie,  fingering  the  chisel  with  filial  submissiveness,  an- 
swered : 

"He's  getting  an  aud  man,  sir,  as  you'll  maybe  discarn,  but 
I'se  jealous  he's  a  deal  better  father  than  son  desarves.  I  mis- 
doot  I  don't  vally  him  according-Zy  as  I  should." 

The  young  gentleman  made  a  murmurous  expression  of 
gratified  politeness.     "Is  he  strict?" 

"Not  si  strict  as  he  used  ti  be,  sir,"  Fondie  confided,  "but 
I  can't  expect  it.  Aud  gentleman's  not  ti  blame  for  that.  It's 
his  years.  I  isn't  grumbling.  He  hasn't  strength,  noo, 
he  had.  I'se  sometimes  wished  I  mud  'a  been  born  sooner, 
while  my  feythur  was  in  his  prime  and  could  'a  dealt  firmer  wi* 
me.  This  last  two  or  three  years,  I  misdoot,  he's  shown  me 
ower-mich  indulgence — and  I'se  not  one  that  can  bide  a  deal  o* 
that.  It  only  spoils  me,  sir.  I'se  jealous  I  gets  more  o'  my 
own  way  than's  good  for  me." 

The  young  gentleman  subscribed  polite  attention  to  senti- 
ments manifestly  beyond  his  capacity  to  assimilate  or  under- 
stand. But  he  did  not  dwell  upon  a  subject  so  much  more 
abstruse  than  his  mind  had  been  prepared  for,  and  quitted  the 
topic,  indeed,  with  the  cheerful  alacrity  that  even  pious  people 
will  betray  at  times  in  leaving  the  house  of  worship,  asking  Fon- 
die if  he  proposed  to  be  at  the  organ  next  Saturday  afternoon. 

"All  being  well,  sir,"  Fondie  answered,  "I'se  i'  hopes  o'  doing 
so." 

The  young  gentleman  did  not  know  whether  he  would  be 
able  to  be  present.  He  meant  to  try  his  very  best.  If  need  were, 
he  told  Fondie,  in  tones  of  such  untroubled  candor  as  to  make 


FONDIE  i8s 

Fondie*s  hypercritical  piety  wince — if  need  were,  he  would 
pretend  to  have  a  headache,  like  Blanche,  and  slip  out  when 
his  grandfather  thought  he  was  upstairs  in  his  bedroom.  Per- 
haps the  troubled  declination  of  Fondie's  eyelids  seemed  to  the 
young  gentleman  scarcely  sufficient  appreciation  of  such  valor- 
ous resolve,  and  he  added,  in  a  self-justifying  voice: 

"Wouldn't  your 

Fondie  misdooted  he  was  not  a  fit  person  to  be  made  arbiter 
on  such  a  point  of  rectitude.  His  father  would  be  a  better 
authority  to  consult. 

"It's  not  for  syke  as  me  ti  offer  advice,  sir,"  he  said,  "that 
stands  si  badh'ns  in  need  of  it  theirsens."  Pressed  by  the  young 
gentleman,  however,  as  to  whether  he  would  himself  do  such  a 
thing  or  not,  he  gave  reluctant  judgment  in  favor  of  the  not, 
pointing  out  at  the  same  time  that  his  judgment  was  of  no  real 
value,  and  that  he  was  as  likely  to  be  wrong  as  anybody,  and 
probably  more  so. 

"What  I  diz  or  dizn*t  do,  sir,"  he  admitted  to  the  young 
gentleman,  "dizn't  seem  ti  mek  a  deal  o*  difference  i'  long 
run.  It's  mosth'ngs  wrong  i'  end.  I  can't  very  well  explain  it. 
I  seem  ti'  'a  that  faculty." 

"Blanche  would  do  it,"  the  young  gentleman  affirmed  confi- 
dently. "She  told  me  she  would.  She  has  done.  She  asked 
me  why  I  didn't  do  it  too.  She  said  she  wasn't  frightened. 
She  didn't  care  if  they  found  her  out.  What  could  they  do  at 
her?  She  didn't  believe  in  cowards.  Why  should  we  do 
what  other  people  tell  us  to  do,  if  we  don't  want?  And  why 
should  we  be  expected  to  tell  the  truth?  People  never  believe 
us  unless  they  like,  she  says.  It  would  be  easier  for  everybody  if 
nobody  believed  anybody.  Then  they  wouldn't  ask  questions 
at  all,  and  people  would  do  as  they  liked  without  any  bother. 
Blanche  says  it's  sickening." 

Fondie  Bassiemoor  recognized  too  well  this  presentment  of 
the  moral  lineaments  of  the  Vicar's  daughter,  faithfully  por- 
trayed, but  he  condoned  the  portrayal  with  his  brief  indulgent 


i86  FONDIE 

smile,  misdooting  the  young  gentleman  shouldn't  take  Miss 
Blanche  too  readily  at  her  own  valliation.  "She  dizn't  alius 
do  hersen  justice,  sir,  i*  speech.  Onnybody  wi'oot  knowing 
her  very  well  mud  think  maybe  she  was  different  fro*  what  she 
reallins  is.  Not  that  it's  for  syke  as  me,"  he  added,  sensible  of 
his  impropriety  in  even  attempting  to  interpret  the  accents  of 
such  a  divinity — "ti  mek  apologies  for  syke  as  her,  nor  seem 
ti  question  her.  She's  a  lady,  sir,  and  I'se  nobbut  what  you 
see  me." 

The  modest  disclaimer  appeared  to  raise  a  new  issue  In  the 
young  gentleman's  mind. 

"Do  you  call  her  a  lady?"  he  asked  Fondie  with  embarrass- 
ing suddenness. 

It  was  a  question  for  which  Fondie  was  visibly  so  unprepared 
that  at  first  he  could  do  no  more  than  strop  the  chisel  impo- 
tently  on  his  palm,  as  though  trying  to  put  an  edge  upon  his 
own  thoughts. 

"Why  ..."  he  conceded  slowly,  after  awhile,  "I'll  own 
your  reproof  is  merited,  sir.  It's  not  for  syke  as  me,  in  a  man- 
ner o'  speaking,  ti  call  her  or  onnybody  else  onnything.  I 
wadn't  set  my  opinion  against  yours,  sir.  Maybe  you'll  think 
different." 

It  appeared,  to  some  degree,  the  young  gentleman  did.  He 
said,  though  not  without  a  certain  amount  of  deliberation  in 
the  saying,  as  if  the  judgment  w-ere  being  weighed  even  whilst 
he  uttered  it:  "I  don't  think  I  should  call  her  a  lady.  She 
does  not  speak  correctly,"  he  said,  as  though  sensible  that 
Fondie's  modest  "Indeed,  sir?"  were  still  (despite  its  external 
humility)  open  to  conviction.  "She  says,  'I  aren't,*  and  *I 
hadn't  need,'  and  'in  house.'  And  she  calls  people  'silly  fools.* 
I  don't  think  a  lady  ought  to  do  that." 

Nevertheless,  despite  the  lack  of  ladyship,  he  decided  that 
the  Vicar's  daughter  was  rather  beautiful,  and  invited  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  to  say  if  he  did  not  think  so ;  w^hereat  Fondie's  color 
visibly  rose  and  the  fond  or  truthful  part  of  him,  thus  directly 


FONDIE  187 

invoked — and  drawn  on  by  a  something  persuasively  sympa- 
thetic in  the  young  gentleman's  voice  and  eye — made  modest 
answer,  "I  misdoot  I  do,  sir."  A  wave  of  misgiving  surged 
up  after  the  confession  and  caused  him  to  beg  the  young  gentle- 
man that  he  would  not  "name  it  ti  onnybody"— ^for  which 
request  he  apologized  in  turn,  saying  he  hoped  the  young  gentle- 
man would  forgive  him,  and  not  take  the  request  amiss.  The 
young  gentleman  appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of  conferring 
plenary  forgiveness  when  the  look  of  magnanimous  assurance 
on  his  face  gave  way  to  a  stare  of  apprehension,  and  he  begged 
Fondie  for  the  time. 

"I  must  be  going,"  the  young  gentleman  decided.  "What  a 
nuisance!  I  wish  I  could  have  stopped."  And  he  sent  a 
regretful  gaze  all  round  the  wheelwright's  yard  and  premises 
as  though  in  appraisement  of  the  attractive  surroundings  from 
which  he  must  now  forcibly  tear  himself, 

"Is  that  the  workshop — "  for  their  conversation  had  been 
carried  on  just  outside  its  doors — "where  you  do  your  work?" 

Fondie  answered:  "Yes,  sir.     Some  of  it,  at  least." 

"May  I  look  inside  ?"  He  added,  more  by  way  of  reminder 
to  himself  than  remark  to  Fondie,  "I  mustn't  stop." 

"You're  very  welcome,  sir,"  Fondie  assured  him.  "Not 
that  there's  a  deal  ti  see.  You'll  say  it's  a  roughish  place, 
I  doot,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman,  on  the  contrary,  contended:  "It's 
a  wonderful  place.  What  a  lovely  smell  it  has!  I  like  it. 
I'd  love  to  work  here.'* 

He  lent  to  the  shop's  observation  an  eye  as  enraptured  and 
reverent  as  any  that  ever  paid  tribute  to  the  noblest  ecclesias- 
tical edifice,  and  a  nostril  that  dilated  apreciatively  to  all  the 
many  odors  with  which  the  half  dim,  half  sunlit  interior  was 
filled;  the  piny  fragrance  of  good  red  resinous  wood  (that  al- 
ways clung  in  some  degree  to  Fondie's  clothes  and  Fondie's 
person)  mingled  with  odors  of  paint  and  turpentine  and  par- 
affin and  linseed,  which  the  young  gentleman  inhaled  with  the 
13 


i88  F  O  N  D  I  E 

zest  for  ozone,  or  drained  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  Jarge 
Amery  would  display  over  the  engulfing  of  a  quart  of  strong 
ale  with  a  dash  of  spirit  in  it. 

It  was  the  first  workshop,  he  confided  to  Fondie,  that  he  had 
ever  been  in,  Fondie  did  not  assume  an  air  of  superiority  for 
the  admission — as  some  people  did  when  their  cousin  Dod 
confessed  he  had  never  seen  inside  a  theater,  or  smelled  the  in- 
toxicating smell  of  oranges  at  a  pantomime.  He  only  an- 
swered : 

"Why,  sir,  it's  not  as  though  workshops  was  meant  for  syke 
gentlefolk  as  you,  that  hasn't  to  depend  on  *em." 

But  even  this  harmless  modesty  was  rebuked  by  the  senti- 
mental part  of  him,  that  caused  contrition  to  add : 

"Not  that  I'd  say  a  word  against  aud  spot,  sir.  Sun  falls 
very  pleasant  in  her  at  times,  particular  of  a  summer  evening — 
very  like,  as  it  may  be,  ti-night,  if  weather  hods.  I'se  seen 
binch  and  shavings  lit  up  like  gold.  And  times  when  sun  sets 
red,  one  might  very  nigh  think  shop  was  afire.  I'se  stood  and 
watched  it  many  a  time — when  I  misdoot  I  ought  tiv  'a  been 
doing  my  wark.  Sunsets  and  syke  things  is  more  for  gentle- 
folk, and  them  'at  has  leisure  ti  enjoy  'em,  sir;  though  very  like 
they'll  think  less  on  'em  because  they're  throng  wi'  other  things 
that  costs  more  money." 

Forgetful  of  his  recent  resolution  not  to  linger,  the  young 
gentleman's  interest  in  his  novel  surroundings  deepened,  and 
only  tore  itself  from  one  object  with  reluctance  to  attach  itself 
by  interrogation  tenaciously  to  another.  The  implements  of 
Fondie's  calling  appealed  to  his.  very  heart.  To  make  their 
acquaintance  by  name  alone  seemed  not  enough.  He  must 
handle  them  and  (where  practicable)  apply  them.  The  sight 
of  the  body  of  a  wagon,  unpainted  as  yet,  that  floated  above  a 
sea  of  shavings  in  the  far  corner,  roused  his  enthusiasm — the 
greater  for  the  knowledge  that  it  represented  Fondie's  unaided 
work;  for  all  Fondie  said  he  should  never  have  known  how  to 
shape  syke  a  thing  if  his  father  had  not  showed  him  how  and 


F  O  N  D  I  E  189 

taught  a  most  inapt  and  dullard  pupil  the  rudiments  of  his 
trade. 

"It's  him  that  should  'a  merit  on  it,  sir,"  Fondie  acknowl- 
edged, "not  me.  All  you  see  there  is  result  of  his  instruction. 
I  misdoot  I  don't  do  him  credit  I  should,  nor  gie  him  gratitude 
enough  for  what  I  owe  him." 

With  this  phase  of  the  question  the  young  gentleman  was 
less  concerned.  All  his  zeal  was  centered  in  the  thing  pro- 
duced, and  all  his  admiration  in  the  executor  of  it,  declaring 
himself  scarcely  able,  to  credit  that  human  agency  unassisted 
could  construct  such  a  great  and  faultless  piece  of  work.  And 
the  wheels?  Surely  Fondie  would  not  make  those?  Why, 
Fondie  would  not  make  those  i'  way  young  gentleman  meant^ 
like.  All  Fondie  would  do  would  be  to  get  wood  for  fellies 
and  spokes  fro*  timber-yards  i'  Hunmouth.  Carrier  would 
bring  those.  And  some  good  ellum  fro'  same  place  for  nef 
(nave).  Carrier  would  bring  ellum  an'  all.  And  then  all 
Fondie  would  have  to  do  would  be  ti  shape  'em  up  an'  put  'em 
together,  sir. 

The  young  gentleman's  countenance,  that  had  showed  radi- 
ant with  the  joys  and  desires  of  enlightenment  when  the  expla- 
nation began,  suddenly  darkened  in  the  middle  of  it,  confronted 
by  the  awful  visage  of  the  outraged  potentate  Time.  With 
hurried  apologies,  saying  that  now  he  really  must  be  going,  he 
took  his  leave,  the  while  Fondie's  lips  grew  penitent,  asserting 
fault  was  his  and  he  should  a'  knawn  better  than  detain  young 
gentleman  when  aud  gentleman  was  very  like  expecting  him. 


XLIV 

AT  the  church  gate  the  young  gentleman  took  leave  of 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  after  a  whole  afternoon  at  the  organ, 
and  this  time  did  actually  shake  the  modest  and  retir- 
ing hand  that  tried  its  respectful  best  to  save  him  the  necessity 


ipo  FOND  IE 

under  pretext  of  being  occupied  with  the  church  key.  But 
the  young  gentleman,  undeterred,  shook  both — ^with  surprising 
friendliness  and  warmth — saying: 

"Good-by,  then.    So  that's  understood.    You  won't  forget?" 

And  Fondie  Bassiemoor  said:  "No,  sir,  he  would  try  and 
not  forget ;"  and  he  walked  home  beneath  a  burden  as  heavy  as 
the  crock-basket  that  the  traveling  hawker  balances  on  his 
head,  for  the  things  that  Fondie  Bassiemoor  undertook  so 
modestly  to  remember  were  things  he  was  scarcely  likely  to 
forget;  things  so  numerous  and  so  wonderful  that  they  lent  a 
new  visage  to  the  world  he  looked  upon  after  three  hours  of 
seclusion  in  the  church  chancel,  and  imparted  to  life  and  to 
himself  and  to  the  things  he  saw  and  to  the  things  he  sensed 
and  thought  a  new  and  divinely  soulful  quality. 

It  had  been  an  afternoon  of  comradeship  and  confidences. 
From  time  to  time  the  participants  had  inflated  the  lungs  of 
the  organ  and  devoted  themselves  to  the  study  of  music  with 
enthusiasm.  Fondie  had  played  the  first  nine  melodious  exer- 
cises for  the  young  gentleman's  delectation,  while  the  young 
gentleman  had  attended  to  the  organ's  respiration;  keeping 
the  bellows  gently  animated  as  Fondie  had  told  him  to  do,  and 
watching  the  leaden  indicator  at  the  end  of  its  catgut  line  with 
the  unwearying  intentness  that  a  sanguine  Thames  angler  will 
dedicate  to  the  watching  of  his  float  in  the  plashing  stream. 
Blanche's  brother  scarcely  displayed  more  instinct  for  pig- 
jobbing  and  butchery  and  the  manufacture  of  arms  of  precision 
than  the  young  gentleman  did  for  the  blowing  of  organs.  He 
blew  with  love  and  rare  discrimination.  No  nursemaid  paid 
by  the  month  ever  rocked  her  mistress'  baby  with  more  con- 
science, or  punished  it  with  a  finer  discretion.  Only  once  in 
a  while,  distracted  by  the  sound  of  something  unusually  gar- 
gantuan in  the  bowels  of  the  laboring  instrument,  did  he  suffer 
his  vigilance  to  lapse  while  he  showed  an  inquiring  forehead 
round  the  woodwork,  to  ask  of  Fondie: 

"What's  that?" 


FONDIE  191 

To  which  Fondie  would  generally  answer: 

"I  misdoot  it's  me,  sir." 

"Was  that  in  the  music?" 

"Some  of  it  ought  ti  be,  sir,"  Fondie  would  return.  "But 
I  misdoot  most  part  on  it's  this  boot  o*  mine.  She  slipped 
again,  sir,  same  place  as  before." 

And  the  young  gentleman,  sliding  on  to  the  slippery  organ- 
bench  that  Fondie  modestly  vacated,  applied  himself  to  the 
comprehension  of  the  nineteenth-century  descendant  of  the  in- 
strument conceived  by  Jubal;  diligently  committing  the  names 
of  the  notes  to  memory,  and  learning  the  formula  of  the  lines 
and  spaces,  while  Fondie  alternately  filled  the  bellows  with 
the  firm,  steady  strokes  that  bespoke  the  knowledged  practi- 
tioner and  came  round  to  superintend  the  disposal  of  the  young 
gentleman's  fingers. 

Then,  after  spells  of  zealous  organship,  they  fell  into  inter- 
vals of  closer  and  more  confidential  talk.  The  young  gentle- 
man, allowing  his  eyes  to  stray  from  their  work  of  concentra- 
tion on  the  keyboard,  took  periodic  stock  of  his  surroundings, 
deciding  that  church  was  a  capital  place  to  meet  one's  friends 
in  (as  Blanche  had  long  ago  discovered),  and  he  went  on  a 
pilgrimage  among  the  pews,  inquiring  of  Fondie  as  to  who  sat 
in  them.  He  asked  where  Blanche  sat  on  Sunday,  to  which 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  answered  with  his  modest  discretion,  "It 
depends,  sir";  and  inquiring  further,  "What  on?"  was  told, 
**Why,  on  nothing  in  particular,  as  you  mud  say,  sir.  On  Miss 
Blanche's  fancy.  One  Sunday  she'll  sit  here;  another  she'll 
sit  there,"  he  explained,  and  parenthetically  apologized  for  this 
particular  habit  in  worship  by  alleging  the  smallness  of  the 
congregation,  and  the  consequent  number  of  vacant  places  at 
disposal — "Not  half  on  'em  sat  in,  sir."  But  the  discovery  of 
a  debilitated  prayer-book  bearing  residuary  traces  of  the  name 
of  Blanche  seemed  to  indicate  where  the  proprietress  had  sat 
last  Sunday,  and  the  young  gentleman,  with  the  exclamation, 
"Oh,  look  here!"  seated  himself  to  study  this  interesting  vestige 


192  F  O  N  D  I  E 

of  the  Vicar's  daughter,  asking  Fondle,  "Who  did  this?"  and 
**Who  did  that?"  for  the  book  was  replete  with  scribblings. 
"Did  Blanche  do  it?"  "I  wouldn't  undertake  ti  say  she  didn't, 
sir,"  Fondie  conscientiously  admitted.  Though  he  was  careful 
to  add,  in  condonement  of  the  offence,  "Maybe  a  long  while 
ago,  sir.     Before  she  was  grown  onnything  like  what  she  is." 

Apart  from  verses  asserting  ownership  on  the  part  of  several 
differing  claimants,  in  several  differing  and  uncertain  hands, 
there  were  some  interesting  entries  that  showed  the  book  had 
served  at  various  times  as  a  vehicle  of  intercourse  between 
remote  worshippers  in  the  way  familiar  to  Whivvle  and  doubt- 
less sundry  other  parishes  if  the  truth  were  only  known  or 
could  be  told;  being  passed  from  hand  to  hand  and  back  again 
for  the  transmission  of  such  interrogatives  and  answers  as: 
"Where  are  you  going  after  church  ?"  "Wait  for  us  at  porch." 
"Did  you  see  M.?"  "W.  said,  why  didn't  you  write?"  And 
one  familiar  phrase  in  Blanche's  robust  and  undisciplined 
script:  "You  are  a  fool." 

On  the  elucidation  of  these  the  young  gentleman  pored  with 
rapt  attention,  referring  to  Fondie  from  time  to  time  on  dubi- 
ous points  of  authorship,  and  curious  to  know  whether  these 
correspondences  had  had  the  sanctification  of  church.  Being 
told  by  Fondie's  misdoubtful  though  indulgent  voice  that 
some  of  them  very  likely  had,  sir,  he  expressed  the  pious  wish 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  attend  divine  worship,  and  indeed 
admitted  he  had  already  besought  permission  of  the  Third  Per- 
son Singular,  but  the  Singular  Third  Person  with  the  steel 
eye  had  discountenanced  the  appeal  on  the  ground  (as  the 
young  gentleman  confided)  that  he  did  not  wish  to  encourage 
people.  To  which  Fondie's  modest  comment  was,  "Very  like 
not,  sir.    I  misdoot  there's  some  people  ready  ti  tek  advantage." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  193 


XLV 

AND  Blanche's  prayer-book  being  in  his  hand,  and 
thoughts  of  the  Vicar's  daughter  in  both  minds,  the 
young  gentleman  alluded  to  his  meeting  with  her 
earlier  in  the  week.  Of  course  he  had  told  Fondie  about  that  ? 
Why,  Fondie  was  fit  ti  think  he  had  done,  sir.  He  had  walked 
as  far  as  pond  wi'  young  lady — to  the  best  that  Fondie's 
memory  served  him.  Yes,  he  had  walked  as  far  as  the  pond. 
Indeed,  sir,  pond  (Fondie  opined)  would  be  middling  low  this 
time  o'  year,  weather  being  that  dry  as  it  had  been.  The 
young  gentleman  had  not  noticed  whether  the  pond  was  low- 
er not.  It  had  a  curious  smell,  and  there  were  many  flies — 
but  Blanche  hazarded  the  cryptic  remark  that  these  latter  were 
better  than  people.  They  had  been  talking  most  of  the  time. 
(Very  like,  sir.  It's  a  nice,  quiet  spot  for  converse.)  Blanche 
had  asked  the  young  gentleman  many  questions.  More  ques- 
tions, he  really  thought,  than  she  ought  to  have  done.  He 
did  not  answer  the  truth  to  all  of  them.  Why  should  he? 
She  didn't  always  tell  the  truth  herself.  She  said  she  didn't. 
But  he  admitted  he  had  liked  her  much  better  than  before. 
He  scarcely  noticed  the  bigness  of  her  teeth  at  all  now,  or  the 
blueness  of  her  eyes.  She  was  wearing  a  blue  frock.  Did 
Fondie  know  it?  Fondie  misdooted  he  had  seen  the  frock  a 
time  or  two,  summer  before.  And  bright  yellow  shoes.  They 
were  new  shoes.  Her  father  (so  she  said)  did  not  approve  of 
them;  but  she  liked  them,  and  wasn't  going  to  care  what  he 
said.  What  did  he  know  about  shoes?  He  wouldn't  let  her 
wear  anything  at  all  if  he  had  his  way.  She  had  displayed  the 
shoes  for  the  young  gentleman's  opinion,  and  asked  him  how 
he  liked  them,  and  he  had  liked  them  very  much,  though  he 
told  Fondie  they  were  very  yellow. 

".  .  .  And  then,"  the  young  gentleman  concluded,  "I  said  I 
must  be  going.  .  .  .  And  so  I  did." 


I94  F  O  N  D  I  E 

The  conclusion  sounded,  even  to  Fondie's  indulgent  ears, 
somewhat  lame  and  unconvincing.  And  that  the  young  gen- 
tleman felt  the  same  In  regard  to  it  was  evidenced  by  the 
immediate  lowering  of  his  eyes. 

**At  least,"  he  added,  and  the  eyelashes,  declined  over  the 
prayer-book,  fluttered,  "I  did  after  awhile."  He  paused,  and 
added  again:  "She  said  I  might  kiss  her  if  I  liked." 

The  admission  was  valorously  made,  with  all  the  force  of 
confidence  and  candor  behind  It,  bringing  up  a  faint  self- 
conscious  flush  into  the  young  gentleman's  cheek.  Fondle, 
without  so  much  as  a  tremor  in  his  voice  to  denote  an  emotion 
discovered  or  a  slumbering  jealousy  stirred,  uttered  a  respect- 
fully dispassionate  "Indeed,  sir!"  that  did  not  even  presume  to 
^  hint  at  the  least  curiosity  to  be  told  more  than  the  young 
gentleman,  in  his  wisdom,  deemed  adequate. 

The  young  gentleman  said:  "I  thought  I  would  let  you 
know." 

Fondle  acknowledged  this  further  proof  of  confidence  with 
a  modest  "Thank  you,  sir."  "Not,"  he  stated  In  a  humbler 
voice,  "that  It  consarns  me  a  deal,  sir" — but  the  young  gentle- 
man did  not  hear  this,  by  reason  of  his  own  desire  to  add  with- 
out delay,  "I  didn't  kiss  her.  I  nearly  did  when  she  said  I 
daredn't.     I  felt  It  wasn't  fair  to  you." 

"To  me,  sir?"  Fondle  Bassiemoor  asked,  with  the  blank 
scepticism  that  cannot  credit  Its  ears  with  having  heard  aright. 

"Yes,  to  you." 

"I  misdoot  you  shouldn't  *a  considered  me,  sir,"  Fondle 
reflected.  "I'se  sorry  you  should  'a  done  that,  and  Miss 
Blanche  would  be  an'  all,  I  know.  It's  not  a  matter  that 
consarns  me  I'  onny  way,  sir." 

"It  does  concern  you.  You  knew  her  first.  You  knew  her 
long  before  I  did.  And  I  told  her  so.  I  said,  *Ask  Mr.  Bassie- 
moor to  kiss  you.'  " 

The  look  of  Incredulity  on  Fondie's  countenance  sharpened 
to  a  look  approaching  pain.     His  lips  could  only  falter  "You 


F  O  N  D  I  E  195 

did,  sir?"  while  his  other  thoughts,  like  a  flock  of  disturbed 
pigeons,  wheeled  round  and  round  in  turbulent  circles,  and 
would  not  settle  within  the  vicinity  of  his  lips.  Through  the 
distracting  tumult  of  his  own  emotions,  Fondie  heard  the 
young  gentleman  remark:  "She  said  you  couldn't.  You  didn't 
know  how." 

Fondie  expressed  the  pious  fear  that  the  young  lady  did  him 
too  much  credit,  and  in  blushing  response  to  the  young  gentle- 
man's ingenuous  query,  "Do  you?"  answered,  "I  misdoot  I 
do,  sir," 

The  young  gentleman,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  tone  appro- 
priate to  confidences,  asked   Fondie: 

"Have  you  ever  kissed  anybody?" 

"When  I  was  younger  I  did,  sir,"  Fondie  admitted.  "I 
can  remember  kissing  my  mother  of  a  neet,  and  my  aunt  and 
sister,  and  another  aunt  that  died,  noo  and  again.  But  maybe 
that  isn't  what  you  mean,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman  confessed  that,  strictly  speaking,  it 
scarcely  was.  He  meant:  Had  Fondie  ever  kissed  anybody 
in  particular?  In  that  interpretation  Fondie  misdooted  that 
he  hadn't,  sir.  Maybe  fault  was  as  mich  his  as  anybody's. 
But  what  wi'  organ  and  workshop  he  didn't  seem  to  get  a  deal 
o'  time  for  onnything  else.  The  young  gentleman  confessed 
that  his  own  case  was  similar.  He  had  read  about  kissing  in 
books — where  it  seemed  to  be  highly  spoken  of.  There  was  a 
lot  of  kissing — some  of  it  doubly  underlined — in  No.  XLV  of 
the  Sunday  Sacred, '"  'Twixt  Love  and  Faith."  Blanche  had 
handed  him  the  copy  with  her  thumb  on  this  part  of  it,  saying, 
"Read  that!"  But  his  own  life  had  contained  singularly  and 
disappointingly  little.  He  could  not  remember  kissing  anybody 
since  childhood,  and  that  only  indistinctly.  He  wondered 
what  kissing  was  really  like?  Fondie  wondered,  respectfully, 
too.  Blanche,  of  course  (said  the  young  gentleman),  would 
know. 

"I  expect  she  will,  sir,"  Fondle  subscribed. 


196  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"There  must  be  something  in  it,"  the  young  gentleman 
pursued. 

"I  misdoot  there  must  be,  sir,"  Fondie  agreed. 

"Though  I  don't  see  why  there  should  be,  after  all,"  the 
young  gentleman  propounded. 

Fondie,  ever  acquiescent,  said :  "Why,  no,  he  didn't  see  why 
there  should  be  a  deal.  Maybe  it  was  nobbut  an  idle  habit 
that  grew  on  folk,  like  smoking  or  drinking."  The  young 
gentleman  held  that,  after  all,  a  love-story  would  be  hopelessly 
incomplete  without  kissing,  and  that,  lacking  this  osculatory 
aid,  no  real  love  could  ever  make  advancement.  Starting  from 
which  premise  he  dug  the  spade  of  frank  inquiry  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  honest  loam  of  Fondie's  confidence,  and  ex- 
posed at  last  the  fibrous  roots  of  Fondie's  passion  in  their  rich, 
respectful  subsoil. 

"I  misdoot,  sir  .  .  ."  Fondie  said,  when  the  full  significance 
of  this  ultimate  revelation  dawned  upon  him,  "...  I  misdoot 
I'se  said  more  than  I'se  onny  right  to  say  ti  onnybody.  I'se 
never  said  it  ti  onnybody  before,  and  I  don't  know  that  I'se 
ever  said  it  quite  si  plain  ti  mysen.  I'se  jealous  you'll  blame 
me,  sir;  and  I  knaw  I  stands  desarving  o'  rebuke." 

But  the  young  gentleman  was  far  from  allocating  blame  or 
apportioning  rebuke.  On  the  contrary,  he  showed  the  keenest 
gratification  in  this  sacred  confidence  unearthed,  saying  it  was 
as  wonderful  as  anything  in  the  Sunday  Sacreds,  and  taking 
as  much  personal  interest  in  Fondie's  passion  as  if  it  had  been 
his  own,  and  praising  his  perspicacity  for  having  divined  Fon- 
die's affections  from  the  first.  Nor  would  he  accept  Fondie's 
estimate  of  the  hopelessness  of  the  passion. 

"I  misdoot  I  should  do  better  ti  bury  it  oot  o'  sight  at  once, 
sir,  and  master  mysen.  It's  what  I'se  made  up  my  mind  ti  do 
a  score  o'  times,  and  hasn't  done.  My  own  sense  tells  me 
naught  can  come  on  It." 

Why,  asked  the  young  gentleman,  should  nothing  come  of 
it?     If  Lord  Vavasour  had  thought  the  same,  would  he  ever 


F  O  N  D  I  E  197 

have  married  Grade  Goodwin?  Why  should  Fondie  seek  to 
slay  his  love  in  this  melancholy  and  promiscuous  way,  and  bury 
it  like  a  dog? 

Of  Fondie's  unworthiness  the  young  gentleman  would  not 
hear.  He  paid  so  many  tributes  to  the  qualities  of  Fondie's 
head  and  hands  and  heart  that  Fondie's  ear-tips  gleamed  like 
forge  cinders  when  the  blast  roars  through  them,  and  Fondie's 
pride,  burning  red-hot,  threatened  to  consume  all  the  sad  ashes 
of  respect  that  so  persistently  smothered  it.  The  young  gentle- 
man championed  Fondie's  aspirations  with  a  generosity  that 
visibly  affected  the  wheelwright's  son.  In  return  for  Fondie's 
organship  and  technical  advice  the  young  gentleman  would 
teach  Fondie  anything  within  his  powder  that  Fondle  sought  to 
learn.  He  would  teach  him  Greek  and  Latin  if  he  wished. 
They  were  hateful  languages  both,  but  the  young  gentleman 
thought  he  would  find  them  infinitely  more  pleasant  to  teach 
than  to  learn.  The  fact  that  they  were  dead  languages  con- 
tributed in  no  small  degree  to  Fondie's  veneration  of  them — 
more  particularly  when  the  young  gentleman  interpreted  with 
tolerable  facility  the  epitaph  in  issimus,  issimi  and  issimae  that 
commemorated  the  virtues  of  the  extinct  vicar,  and  explained 
the  significance  of  these  sibilant  terminations.  Nevertheless, 
all  things  considered,  Fondie  opined  that  such  august  deacl 
tongues  were  not  for  one  in  his  walk  of  life,  and  that  time 
expended  over  learning  what  nobody  else  about  him  could 
understand  mud  be  (in  a  manner  0'  speaking,  sir)  thrown 
away.  But  those  other  studies  related  more  nearly  to  the  liv- 
ing languages  with  which,  as  he  confessed,  he  was  all  too  im- 
perfectly acquainted,  appealed  less  resistibly  to  his  ambitions 
and  desires. 

Putting  his  passion  for  Blanche  and  all  its  train  of 
possibilities  and  consequences  apart,  he  had  always  experi- 
enced a  longing  to  read  and  write  his  native  language  as  she 
should  respectively  be  writ  and  spoken — to  the  end  that  he 
might  imbibe  knowledge  at  first  sight  from  its  printed  source, 


198  F  O  N  D  I  E 

and  possess  himself  of  an  efficient  verbal  implement  for  his 
thoughts. 

"There's  things  comes  inti  my  head  at  times,  sir,"  he  ad- 
mitted, "that  I  couldn't  express  ti  onnybody,  for  lack  o'  know- 
ing how.  Things  I'd  like  tl  say,  and  yet  lacks  tongue  ti  say 
'em  wi'.  You  won't  know  what  that  means,  sir,  and  I  misdoot 
I  can't  explain  it  to  ye  onny  better  than  what  I'se  done." 

The  young  gentleman,  on  the  contrary,  knew  quite  well 
what  it  meant,  and  knew,  moreover,  the  remedy.  It  was  an 
English  grammar,  which  he  placed  unreservedly  at  Fondie 
Bassiemoor's  disposal,  with  the  further  undertaking  to  explain 
any  doubtful  points  which  Fondie,  in  the  course  of  his  studies, 
might  find  in  it. 

"I'se  jealous  all  grammars  i'  the  world,  sir,"  Fondie  re- 
flected, "can't  mek  a  gentleman  o'  me.  Miss  Blanche  would 
want  ti  look  a  deal  higher  than  me.  It's  only  right  she  should. 
Even  if  she'd  condescend  i'  the  course  o'  time  ti  have  me,  I 
misdoot  for  her  own  sake  I  shouldn't  ought  ti  encourage  her. 
I  should  only  be  helping  ti  pull  her  doon.  Wi'  syke  as  you, 
sir,"  Fondie  added,  "case  would  be  altered.  You  mud  aspire 
ti  onnybody." 

The  young  gentleman  hurriedly  interposed: 

"No,  no.  She  doesn't  think  anything  about  me,  really.  I'm 
not  strong  and  manly-looking  like  you.  I  know  she  cares  for 
you.  I'm  sure  she  does.  You  could  soon  make  her  care  for 
you  if  you  liked  to  try." 

"Wi'  you  it  wouldn't  need  ti  be  case  o'  trying  a  deal,  sir," 
Fondie  reflected.  "I'se  fit  ti  think  you've  caught  Miss 
Blanche's  fancy  wi'oot  trying.  A  word  or  look  frev  you,  sir, 
would  gan  as  far  as  a  score  o'  mine,  and  it's  nobbut  ti  be 
expected  they  should.  I'se  best  ti  try  and  keep  mysen  re- 
spectful. It's  what  I'se  alius  been  used  ti,  sir,  and  if  I  once 
let  go  o'  that  there's  no  knowing  where  I  may  find  mysen  i* 
end.  .  .  ." 

He  added :  ".  .  .  Next  time  young  lady  offers  ye  onnything, 


FONDIE 


199 


sir,  Tse  jealous  you'd  best  tek  it  wi'oot  considering  me.  She'd 
think  none  the  better  o'  me,  I  misdoot,  if  she  knew  what  I'd 
cost  her  again  pond  the  other  afternoon." 


XLVI 

AGAIN  the  young  gentleman  resisted  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor's  chivalrous  surrender  with  equal  magnanimity 
and  a  rapid  "No,  no,"  saying  he  had  not  made 
Blanche's  acquaintance  until  long  after  Fondie  had  known  her, 
and  he  had  never  thought  of  her  in  Fondie*s  way  until  he  saw 
how  Fondie  thought  of  her. 

"And  besides  .  .  ."  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  that  had 
recently  shown  a  disposition  to  rise  above  the  original  level  of 
church  decorum  agreed  upon  by  both,  ".  .  .  it  is  impossible. 
For  me.  I  cannot  ...  I  could  not.  ...  I  want  to  tell  you 
something,"  he  imparted  to  the  submissive  Fondie,  "something 
I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time — almost  from  the 
first.  It  is  a  secret.  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  I  know  you  can. 
I'm  sure  you  can.  I  would  like  to  share  it  with  some  friend — 
with  you.     May  I?" 

Fondie  said — ^what  the  young  gentleman,  or  any  second- 
standard  scholar  in  the  Whivvle  school  might  have  expected 
him  to  say — that  he  was  humbly  grateful  for  the  token  of  the 
young  gentleman's  confidence,  though  he  misdooted  he  did  not 
deserve  it. 

"I  was  hoping  you'd  ask  me,"  the  young  gentleman  ex- 
plained. "But  you  never  did.  You  never  do.  When  I  told 
you  this  afternoon  we  had  been  to  Mersham  on  Saturday  you 
only  said,  'Indeed.'  I  thought  for  a  moment  you  said  that  as 
though  you  suspected  something — but  then  I  thought  not. 
Did  you?" 

Fondie  said:  "I  should  be  sorry  ti  suspect  you  of  onnything, 
sir,  after  marks  o'  consideration  you've  shown  me.  .  .  ."    And 


200  F  O  N  D  I  E 

the  young  gentleman  remarked:  "No,  I'm  sure  you  didn't.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  might  have  asked  me  why  we  had  walked 
to  Mersham.  Blanche  did.  I  told  her  I  didn't  know.  She 
said  it  was  a  silly  walk,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  when  you 
got  there.  She  preferred  the  Green  Lane.  Which  is  the  Green 
Lane?" 

"Maybe  you  won't  know  it,  sir,"  Fondie  answered.  "And 
I  misdoot  I  can't  very  well  describe  it  to  ye  wi'oot  we  step 
outside  porch." 

The  young  gentleman  said  "Never  mind!"  to  the  latter 
suggestion  and  asked  Fondie  if  he  knew  Mersham. 

"I  know  it  i'  sense  of  having  been  there  a  time  or  two,  sir," 
Fondie  replied.  "And  I  can  remember  looking  inti  some  o* 
windows  once  when  bricklayer  was  at  wark  on  roof.  It's  a 
strange  big,  noble  place,  sir,  as  no  doubt  you'd  see  for  your- 
self. One  can't  help  but  feel  sorry  ti  think  syke  a  grand  place 
should  'a  been  wasted,  as  you  mud  say.  She  was  kept  i'  won- 
derful fittle  i'  Sir  Lancelot's  time,  by  what  my  feythur  says.'* 

"My  name's  Lancelot,  too,"  the  young  gentleman  vouch- 
safed in  a  significant  voice,  and  Fondie's  comment  was:  "In- 
deed, sir.  Onnybody  mud  know  it  was  a  real  gentleman's 
name  by  sound  on  it." 

"My  grandfather  says  Mersham  belongs  to  me,"  the  young 
gentleman  confided.     "He  says  it  is  mine  by  right." 

That  Fondie  Bassiemoor  had  no  conception  of  the  value  of  a 
climax  was  sufficiently  attested  by  the  fact  of  his  contributing 
a  second  "Indeed,  sir,"  to  this  prodigious  piece  of  information, 
in  a  voice  not  very  different  from  the  first;  a  respectful,  placid, 
and  submissive  voice  that  did  not  even  suffer  emotions  of  sud- 
den surprise  to  disturb  it  into  any  accent  approaching  wonder. 
His  acquiescence  in  the  imparted  confidence  was  so  implicit 
and  complete  that  the  young  gentleman  appeared  to  entertain 
a  doubt  whether  such  unconditional  assent  could  be  assent  at 
all,  and  asked,  as  though  the  point  had  been  disputed: 

"Don't  you  believe  it  ?" 


FONDIE  201 

"I  believe  it  if  you  say  it  is,  sir,"  Fondle  answered.  "Aud 
gentleman  would  be  very  like  ti  know.  I'se  jealous  he  knows 
most  things,  sir,  by  looks  on  him." 

Complete  though  this  assurance  was,  such  an  unquestioning 
surrender  of  faith  to  human  authority  failed  to  conform  to  the 
full  standard  of  the  young  gentleman's  satisfaction,  for  he  said 
after  a  moment,  with  perhaps  a  slight  tincture  of  disappoint- 
ment audible  in  his  voice  for  the  lack  of  reassuring  doubt  in 
Fondie's,  "You  don't  say  what  you  think." 

"Why,  sir,"  Fondie  explained,  "I  misdoot  it  dizn't  beseem 
me  ti  think  onnything,  except  that  yon's  a  grand  spot  ti  belong 
onnybody.  Maybe,  if  I'd  been  asked,  sir,  I  should  'a  said 
Mersham  belonged  somebody  else — I'd  an  idea  she  did — but 
you  won't  need  ti  be  telt  I'se  better  pleased  she  dizn't.'* 

He  added:  "I  hope  she'll  continue  ti  be  yours  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  sir;  and  aud  gentleman  may  be  spared  many  a 
year  ti  enjoy  place  wi'  ye.  There's  nobody  would  wish  that 
more  than  me,  sir." 

Once  again  the  implicit  assumption  of  Fondie  Bassiemoor's 
faith  in  the  young  gentleman's  confidence,  and  his  modest 
gratification  in  the  young  gentleman's  good  fortune,  caused 
the  latter  a  certain  degree  of  embarrassment. 

"Of  course  Mersham  doesn't  belong  to  me  now,"  he  hastened 
to  explain. 

"It  maybe  will  do  some  day,  sir,"  Fondie  encouraged  him. 

"I  don't  know."  The  self-declared  claimant  shook  his 
gentlemanly  head.  "Sometimes  I  think  it  never  will.  Some- 
times .  .  ." — a  certain  current  of  bitterness  and  despondency 
crept  into  his  voice  and  mingled  with  those  clearly  regulated 
tones  that  Fondie  loved  so  well  to  listen  to ;  the  limpid  stream 
of  speech  in  which  his  hearing,  as  it  were,  bathed  itself  delect- 
ably  with  a  sense  of  cleansing  and  refreshment,  emerging  with 
a  comfortable  glow  of  stimulated  endeavor  and  imperfections 
healed — "sometimes  I  even  hope  it  never  will.  Sometimes  I 
feel  just  what  Blanche  feels  when  she  says  everything  is  sick- 


202  F  O  N  D  I  E 

ening.  At  times  everything  is.  It's  like  a  dream.  I  suppose 
it's  true." 

"Why,  I'se  fit  ti  think  it  will  be,"  Fondie  tried  to  reassure 
him.    **Aud  gentleman  wouldn't  seek  ti  tell  ye  onnything  else." 

"And  yet  .  .  .  often  I  wish  it  wasn't.  More  than  ever  since 
we  came  here  and  I've  got  to  know  you.  I  wish  he  could  find 
out  that  it  was  all  wrong,  all  a  mistake — and  would  let  me 
be  just  like  other  people." 

"Why,  for  the  matter  of  that,  sir,"  Fondie  told  him,  with 
gentle  consolation,  "other  people's  got  troubles  o'  their  own, 
just  same.  Gentlefolk  has  a  lot  ti  put  up  with,  I  know,  sir — 
and  very  like  they  feel  'em  keener.  I  expect  it  teks  as  mich 
hard  work  ti  be  a  gentleman  and  act  up  tiv  it  as  ti  be  onny- 
thing else,  and  maybe  more.  But  I  misdoot  you  couldn't  bide 
being  onnything  else  very  well — and  onnything  not  so  good — 
efter  once  you'd  been  a  gentleman,  sir,  I'se  jealous  we're  what 
we  are,  and  we  tek  a  deal  o'  changing  ti  be  any  different." 

The  young  gentleman  subscribed  to  the  doctrine  of  the  in- 
transmutability  of  human  nature,  less  after  the  fashion  of  a 
complete  assentient  than  as  one  whose  mind  carried  too  many 
burdens  to  engage  fn  discussion  by  the  way.  He  understood 
Fondie's  meaning,  which,  however,  he  qualified  with  a  "but," 
and  having  qualified,  no  longer  considered.  All  his  life,  he 
said — or  all  the  rememberable  part  of  it  at  least — he  had  been 
governed  by  this  legend  of  gentility.  Unlike  Fondie,  he  had 
known  no  father  whose  wise  authority  he  might  now  revere, 
or  mother  whose  love,  once  enjoyed,  he  might  cherish.  Both 
parents  had  passed  out  of  his  world  while  yet  its  horizons  were 
restricted  to  the  walls  and  windows  of  that  infant  wailing- 
place,  the  nursery.  The  bones  of  his  father,  long  since  scattered 
from  their  perished  shroud,  strewed  the  deep  ooze  of  distant 
waters.  The  father's  eyes  had  never  rested  on  his  son,  and 
his  mother's  eyes  were  dimming  fast  for  death  when  they  did 
so  and  hands  held  out  to  her  the  precious  heritage  that  was 
to  bear  the  name  of  Lancelot.    Lancelot,  with  the  other  names 


F  O  N  D  I  E  203 

he  bore,  had  been  his  grandfather's  choice,  and  always  and 
only  (so  it  seemed)  the  steel-gray  eye  had  been  the  witness  of 
his  griefs  and  growth,  and  the  waxen  ear  the  sole  receptacle 
of  such  confidences  as  it  discouraged  him  from  pouring  into  it. 
And  ever  and  always,  circumscribing  all  his  instincts  and  rul- 
ing all  his  longings,  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the  strictest 
faith  of  orthodox  gentility.  Mersham  was  his  rightful  home 
as  surely  as  Heaven — in  Bless  Allcot's  theology — was  created 
for  the  heritage  of  repentant  sinners.  And  like  its  religious 
prototype,  this  creed  (he  confided  to  Fondie)  tended  to  grow 
chill  and  meaningless;  a  mere  formula  without  the  fervor 
necessary  to  warm  and  animate  the  limbs  of  faith.  Now  and 
again  he  decided  to  espouse  it  with  all  his  force  and  passion, 
as  the  easiest  way  of  making  a  tyranny  supportable.  At  such 
times  of  willful  conversion,  he  saw  himself  already  inheritor 
of  Mersham;  all  his  faith  rewarded;  his  aspirations  fulfilled; 
his  sacrifices  compensated.  Then,  under  the  vision  splendid, 
he  could  fling  himself  into  the  gentlemanly  studies  that  the 
maternal  grandfather  imposed  on  him;  into  the  Greek  and 
into  the  Latin,  and  into  such  higher  branches  of  learning  as 
would  be  requisite  to  matriculate  him  in  the  University  after 
the  way  befitting  a  gentleman.  After  that,  faith's  sinews  flag- 
ging under  the  protracted  tension,  the  young  gentleman  sank 
back  into  the  discontented  and  unworthy  frame  of  mind  that 
sought  immediate  pleasures,  and  such  joys  as  were  the  present 
possession  of  the  vulgar,  and  earned  the  deep  reproaches  of  a 
grandparent  whose  goodness  he  acknowledged  without  exactly 
appreciating.  He  admitted  the  delinquency  to  Fondie,  and 
owned — almost  with  Fondie's  character  of  frankness — his  in- 
ability to  requite  such  goodness  as  it  deserved. 

"He  says  I  have  no  proper  pride.  I  suppose  I  haven't.  I 
ought  to  remember  who  I  am.  Perhaps  I  ought.  He  says  I 
ought  to  have  no  inclination  to  mix  with  .  .  .  with  common 
people.     I  don't  mean  you." 

"But  then,"  the  young  gentleman  continued,  in  the  fullness 
14 


204  F  O  N  D  I  E 

of  his  confession,  ".  .  .  what's  the  use?  He'd  have  me  write 
out  genealogies  all  day.  I'm  sick  of  genealogies  and  pedigrees. 
iWhat  good  is  the  Duke  of  Abercrombie's  genealogy  and  coat 
of  arms  to  me?  I've  done  it  scores  of  times,  and  all  the  other 
dukes  as  v^^ell.  I  w^as  doing  it  that  day  you  came  to  mend  the 
pump.  So  big" — he  indicated  the  size  w^ith  extended  hands — 
*'on  a  drawing-board."-  He  drew  for  Fondie  a  minute  and 
vivid  picture  of  all  his  labors  in  this  heraldic  field  under  the 
old  gentleman's  direction.  In  the  old  house,  it  appeared,  were 
cupboardfuls  of  notebooks  crowded  with  almost  undecipherable 
entries  in  his  grandfather's  crabbed  hand:  dates  of  births  and 
deaths  and  marriages;  mural  epitaphs  and  inscriptions  from 
tombstones;  extracts  from  church  registers,  packed  away  with 
bales  of  letters  from  all  sorts  of  sources — from  lawyers,  clergy- 
men, parish  clerks,  heraldic  offices,  and  genealogical  agents.  He 
recalled  tedious  hours  spent  in  sacred  buildings,  spelling  out, 
letter  by  letter,  inscriptions  that  his  grandfather's  failing  sight 
could  not  decipher;  subsequently  making  clear  copies  of  these 
at  home;  entering  and  re-entering  them  innumerable  times  in 
innumerable  books,  in  all  sorts  of  conjunctions,  and  under  all 
sorts  of  classifications.  There  was  not  a  date  on  any  grave- 
stone or  cenotaph  or  tomb  but  his  grandfather  took  note  of  it, 
saying  it  might  cast  light  upon  some  other  date  that  the  young 
gentleman  had  grown  sick  of  months  before.  Already  they  had 
spent  two  whole  days  at  Mersham,  occupied  in  the  same  pur- 
suit, and  now  his  grandfather  talked  of  going  again,  and  tak- 
ing the  big  magnifying  glass  for  a  closer  scrutiny  of  the  church 
register.  His  grandfather  was  not  satisfied  that  some  of  the 
entries  had  not  been  tampered  with.  Of  course  that  was  a 
strict  secret.     Fondie  must  not  breathe  a  word. 

.  .  .  Still,  the  young  gentleman  admitted  with  some  comfort 
that  his  grandparent  was  less  exacting  than  once  upon  a  time 
he  had  been.  In  which  respect  he  compared  him  to  Fondie's 
father.  Perhaps  for  a  whole  month  the  books  and  bales  of 
Correspondence  would  lie  undisturbed  and  no  word  of  geneal- 


FOND  IE  205 

ogies  would  be  mentioned.  And  then,  all  at  once,  the  old 
gentleman  would  say  they  were  neglecting  their  duty  and  letting 
all  their  opportunities  slide  by;  and  the  bales  of  letters  would 
be  brought  and  released  from  their  pink  tape,  and  the  table 
would  be  piled  up  with  the  accumulated  correspondence  of 
years.  And  he  would  catechize  the  young  gentleman  upon  the 
facts  of  his  descent  and  its  chronology;  and  when  the  young 
gentleman  was  at  loss  (as  not  infrequently,  he  confessed,  he 
was)  for  the  name  of  some  remote  heiress  in  a  collateral 
branch,  or  the  date  of  her  marriage  and  death,  the  old  gentle- 
man would  shake  his  head  and  say  that  all  his  labor  had  been 
wasted,  and  all  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  pounds  expended 
in  his  grandson's  interest  thrown  away,  and  the  sacrifices  of  a 
lifetime  made  void,  and  this  was  his  reward — ^just  as  Blanche's 
father  did  when  he  discovered  a  Sunday  Sacred  secreted  in  the 
action  of  the  vicarage  piano.  It  seemed  there  was  a  curious 
similarity  between  fathers  and  grandfathers  the  world  over. 

"Sometimes  I  have  seen  tears  in  his  eyes,"  the  young  gentle- 
man confessed  to  Fondie  in  a  voice  of  deep  contrition.  ''That 
made  me  feel  frightful.  I  worked  ever  so  hard  after  that." 
He  tried  to  explain  to  Fondie  the  precise  nature  of  his  claim  to 
Mersham,  and  the  defect  in  the  legitimacy  of  the  early  issue  of 
Sir  Matthew  Holderness,  Kt.  (1665),  through  whom  the 
present  holder  had  successfully  established  his  title,  and  Fondie 
listened  with  respect  and  humility,  saying  he  misdooted  it 
wasn't  for  syke  as  him  to  understand  syke  matters,  but  so  far 
as  he  mud  venture  ti  express  an  opinion,  the  estate  ought  never 
ti  'a  passed  inti  hands  it  had,  sir.  The  young  gentleman, 
gratified  by  the  unmistakable  sincerity  that  colored  Fondie's 
diffidence,  said,  "You  really  think  so?" 

Fondie  answered,  "I  do,  sir."  And  just  as  the  young  gen- 
tleman's bright  optimism  on  Fondie's  behalf  had  caused  Fon- 
die's confidence  to  shrink  like  an  eye  in  the  sunlight,  so  Fondie's 
allegiance  made  the  young  gentleman's  faith  waver.  He  did 
not  know.      He  wondered.      He  doubted.      It  was  all  dim, 


306  F  O  N  D  I  E 

remote,  and  sickening.  But  if  it  turned  out  true  at  last,  and 
one  day  he  came  into  his  rightful  own,  he  would  never  forget 
Fondie — never.  When  Mersham  came  to  be  his  and  he  came 
to  be  his  own  master,  Mersham  would  always  be  open  to 
Fondie.  Such  an  ebullition  of  friendship  from  the  wells  of 
the  young  gentleman's  heart  so  softened  Fondie's  own  that  he 
could  only  say  "Thank  you,  sir  .  .  ."  in  a  voice  noticeably 
unsteady. 

And  in  that  day,  the  young  gentleman  pointed  out,  when  he 
should  be  at  Mersham,  and  Fondie  should  have  mastered  the 
elements  of  English  grammar  and  other  studies  beside,  and 
made  himself  worthy  of  Blanche  (though  he  was  worthy  of 
her  now,  in  the  young  gentleman's  opinion),  Blanche  would 
think  differently  of  Fondie,  and  all  would  be  well.  For  the 
young  gentleman's  part,  his  future — in  this  connection — w*as 
unsure.  He  would  probably  have  to  marry  somebody  in  his 
own  station,  for  whom  he  cared  nothing.  That  was  one  of 
the  stern  duties  too  frequently  imposed  upon  a  gentleman. 
His  grandfather  had  told  him  so. 

Meanwhile,  by  dint  of  more  organ  and  talks  of  Blanche, 
and  pledges  of  unswerving  friendship  (which  Fondie  misdooted 
very  much  he  ought  not  to  suffer  himself  to  give)  and  vows  of 
secrecy  on  both  sides,  they  worked  the  climax  of  the  afternoon 
to  a  fine  pitch  of  optimism  and  enthusiastic  sentiment. 

"So  it  is  agreed,"  the  young  gentleman  said  at  the  church 
gate,  and  Fondie  said  if  the  young  gentleman  wished  it,  it 
was;  and  the  young  gentleman  shook  Fondie's  hand  with  the 
big  brown  key  in  it,  and  they  went  their  ways:  the  young 
gentleman  at  a  nimble  running  pace;  Fondie  at  a  more  sober 
and  meditative  gait,  with  Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson  beneath  his 
arm,  filled  with  a  curious  elation — as  though,  for  very  little, 
he  might  have  soared  into  the  air  balloon-wise,  levitated  by  his 
own  hopes;  and  yet  held  down  to  earth  by  the  weight  of 
curious  perplexities,   asking  if  he   were   he,   and   if  this  that 


F  O  N  D  I  E  207 

walked  with  Dr.  Ezra  Blenkinson  beneath  his  arm  were  really 
Fondie  Bassiemoor,  the  wheelwright's  son ;  and  if  these  strange 
disclosures  and  confidences  with  which  his  busy  brain  abounded 
belonged  veritably  to  him  or  to  some  other;  and  if  the  world 
around  him  were  in  sooth  stern  substance  as  he  had  hitherto 
believed,  or  the  most  insubstantial  tissue  of  amorphous  fancy, 
that  changed  its  shape  and  outward  seeming  with  every  varia- 
tion in  the  eye  that  beheld  it. 


PART  II 
I 

WHEN  Time,  that  black  magician  and  artificer  of  des- 
tinies, can  work  such  speedy  wonders  that  (in  Bless 
Allcot's  divinity)  a  man  may  be  on  earth  one  mo- 
ment and  in  Hell  or  Heaven  the  next — according  to  whether 
he  has  lived  Church  of  England  or  Primitive — being  settled 
down  in  his  new  quarters  a  whole  post  before  his  relatives  can 
be  informed  as  to  what  has  got  him,  it  might  be  thought  that 
with  the  aid  of  a  twelvemonth  the  aged  conjuror  would  effect 
such  changes  in  the  face  of  the  world  as  might  almost  put  one 
year's  Whivvle  out  of  the  memory  of  its  successor,  even  allowing 
for  that  slower  rate  of  chronology  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
Blanche  Bellwood  and  many  others,  is  held  to  prevail  in  the 
country,  where  clocks  are  said  to  tick  without  stirring  a  hand 
for  time's  advancement,  and  nothing  ever  happens,  and  every- 
thing is  perpetually  sickening,  which  is  the  reason  that  all  self- 
respecting  people  go  to  live  in  Hunmouth. 

But  though  this  accusation  is  not  altogether  just,  and  men 
die  as  quickly  in  the  country  as  elsewhere,  and  take  no  longer 
in  being  born,  and  Reuben  Halliday's  chimney  that  had  been 
accounted  tottering  for  years  blew  down  in  a  single  night — just 
as  any  city  chimney  might  do;  and  every  acre  under  tillage 
changes  annually  from  seeds  to  wheat  and  wheat  to  fallow, 
so  that  no  two  succeeding  summers  are  ever  alike,  but  as  differ- 
ent as  can  be ;  and  momentous  changes  are  writ  everywhere,  on 
every  hand,  though  because  they  are  writ  In  the  small  print  of 
nature,  and  not  in  the  magnified  headlines  dear  to  journalism, 
many  people  lack  the  skill  or  patience  to  read  them — never- 

209 


210  FONDIE 

theless,  though  Time  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Whlvvle,  and 
last  year's  calendar  might  have  served  for  the  year  that  followed, 
with  small  confusion,  and  the  wheelwright's  yard  had  changed 
so  little  that  people  who  had  not  seen  it  all  the  intervening 
twelvemonth  might  know  it  at  once  again  for  the  same  yard, 
and  the  wheelwright's  beard  was  the  same  beard — neverthe- 
less, impartial  Time  had  moved  strictly  in  accordance  with  the 
almanac  and  solar  system,  and  bestowed  birthdays  in  Whivvle 
as  elsewhere,  so  that  Fondie  was  nineteen  and  Blanche  all  with- 
in a  month  of  seventeen,  as  she  had  been  all  within  a  month  of 
sixteen  when  she  climbed  over  the  old  house  wall. 

So  Blanche  being  now  on  the  verge  of  seventeen,  her  educa- 
tion automatically  completed  itself,  and  next  term  ceased  to  be 
talked  about  or  to  have  significance  where  Blanche  was  con- 
cerned. The  Vicar,  shaking  his  head,  deplored  that  his  daughter 
had  made  no  better  use  of  the  educational  advantages  so  liber- 
ally bestowed  upon  her,  but  it  was  too  late  to  deplore  that  now. 
He  had  done  his  best — more  than  his  best,  considering  his  small 
means  and  all  the  sacrifices  that  his  best  entailed.  He  had  done 
his  duty.  If  his  children  had  failed  to  do  theirs  the  matter 
must  rest  in  higher  hands.  Some  day,  he  prophesied  with 
Biblical  intensity,  his  daughter  would  bitterly  regret  the  misuse 
of  her  own  time  and  of  her  father's  goodness.  The  intermittent 
music  lessons  ceased  as  well,  for,  as  the  Vicar  said,  what  was 
there  to  justify  the  spending  of  his  hard-earned  money  in  this 
direction  when  he  never  saw  any  return  for  it?  Besides,  he 
would  shortly  be  faced  with  heavy  expenses  in  another  quarter. 
Alexis  was  growing  up,  and  the  next  term  that  had  been  his 
sister's  peculiar  property  so  long — much  longer  than  her  father 
had  been  able  to  afford^  indeed — must  now  advert  to  the  Bul- 
locky  in  earnest.  Hitherto  Blanche  had  always  been  the  ob- 
stacle to  her  brother's  scholastic  advancement.  It  was  out  of 
the  question — as  the  Vicar  affirmed — that  his  slender  stipend 
could  support  two  next  terms.  Even  one  imposed,  upon  the 
vicarial  purse  and  care,  a  strain  far  greater  than  his  children  ap- 


FONDIE  211 

predated  or  their  conduct  justified.  So  each  one  of  the  Vicar's 
family  had  prejudiced,  in  turn,  the  progress  of  the  one  behind. 
Blanche's  elder  brother  had  cost  her  one  full  term  at  least,  since, 
in  the  words  of  her  father,  it  was  impossible  to  do  everything, 
and  there  was  her  brother  Harold  to  think  of  first.  And  her 
brother  Harold  had  gone  into  an  accountants  office  at  last — 
after  playing  cricket  all  summer  with  the  village  team  whilst 
his  parent  thought  about  him — lured  by  the  prospect  of  an  im- 
mediate five  shillings  a  week  for  the  gratification  of  dawning 
manly  vices.  As  for  Blanche's  taking  of  the  organ,  the  subject 
died.  For  Blanche's  hostility  to  church-organship  having  car- 
ried on  its  campaign  in  no  better  cause  than  that  of  disinclina- 
tion, chose  dignity  at  last  as  her  standard;  contending  that  it 
was  not  fitting  for  the  Vicar's  daughter,  at  her  age,  to  have 
such  menial  work  to  do.  When  she  was  younger  it  might  not 
have  mattered  so  much.  The  schoolmaster  ought  to  do  it  by 
rights.  Other  schoolmasters  did.  If  this  one  couldn't,  why 
didn't  her  father  get  one  that  could  ? 

Also,  the  same  dignity  that  made  it  impossible  for  the  Vicar's 
daughter  to  play  the  organ  for  Sunday  worship  compelled  her 
to  have  a  bicycle.  No  decent  Vicar's  daughter  could  maintain 
the  respect  due  to  her  father's  position  without  a  bicycle.  When 
Blanche  (Blanche  said)  was  forced  to  admit  she  had  no  bicycle, 
people  laughed  at  her.  This  means  of  locomotion  had  long 
been  a  point  of  dispute  between  the  Vicar  and  his  daughter, 
Blanche  declaring  she  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  walking  out  on 
foot,  and  the  Vicar  contending  that  Blanche  would  tire  of  a 
bicycle  the  moment  he  bought  one  for  her,  as  she  had  tired 
of  her  pianoforte.  To  which  Blanche  retorted  that  it  was  not 
her  pianoforte,  and  it  had  not  been  bought  for  her,  and  she  had 
never  asked  for  it,  and  she  did  not  want  it,  and  people  could  not 
ride  to  Hunmouth  and  back  on  a  pianoforte,  which  the  Vicar 
exclaimed  he  had  no  desire  his  daughter  should  do,  since  she 
never  went  to  Hunmouth  but  that  her  behavior  was  the  worse 
for  it. 


212  FONDIE 

Not  that  Blanche  was  Ignorant  ot  the  principles  and  practice 
of  the  art  of  cycling.  From  the  earliest  days  the  knowledge 
had  been  hers.  She  had  ridden  as  a  passenger  poised  on  steps 
to  almost  every  Kissing  Ring  of  consequence,  and  back  again; 
and  on  the  saddle  of  almost  every  bicycle,  masculine  and  femi- 
nine, in  her  father's  parish,  worth  the  riding.  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor's  bicycle  had  always  been  at  her  serivce — to  name  no  other 
of  the  many  available  when  she  stood  in  need  of  fleeter  loco- 
motion than  her  own  legs  afforded — though,  other  things  being 
equal,  she  always  preferred  Fondie's  because  nothing  was  ever 
said,  nor  was  there  any  occasion  to  say  anything,  if  a  mud- 
guard were  bent  or  a  spoke  broken,  beyond  the  most  casual 
allusion  to  the  damage. 

Fondie's  courtesy  always  thanked  her  for  having  drawn  his 
attention  to  the  matter,  as  if  it  had  been  a  service  Instead  of 
an  injury,  misdooting  with  unfailing  regularity  that  spoke  or 
mudguard  or  brake  (whichever  it  might  be)  had  been  (maybe) 
amiss  a  long  while,  and  he  was  only  thankful  nothing  worse  had 
happened  onnybody,  miss.  Fault  was  his  (said  he)  for  having 
lent  machine  wl'oot  looking  her  over  first,  and  making  sure  she 
was  tl  trist  ti? 

Having,  on  the  strength  of  her  anticipated  seventeenth  birth- 
day, renewed  her  appeal  for  a  bicycle,  and  being  asked  by  the 
Vicar,  in  a  voice  of  paternal  distress  for  his  daughter's  utter 
lack  of  feeling  or  of  reason,  if  this  were  a  time  to  talk  about 
bicycles  with  next  term  hanging  over  his  head  and  Alexis'  fu- 
ture to  think  of,  Blanche  decided  complacently  that  It  was,  and 
commissioned  Fondie  Bassiemoor  to  supply  her  with  the  best 
second-hand  bicycle  obtainable  forthwith,  in  condition  equal 
to  new,  at  any  price  up  to  thirty  shillings  (though  cheaper  if 
possible)  on  the  deferred  payment  system;  only  regretting  she 
had  never  thought  of  this  convenient  method  of  doing  business 
before. 

The  bicycle  that  Fondie  secured  at  last  for  Blanche  came 
from  the  school-teacher  of  Myton,  whose  advancement  in  learn- 


FOND  IE  213 

ing  and  salary  justified  her  in  the  purchase  of  a  machine  so  pre- 
cious that  it  lived  in  the  best  parlor  along  with  the  Bible  and 
sewing-machine,  draped  in  a  dust-sheet.  Friends  were  intro- 
duced to  look  at  it  and  hear  the  bell,  and  the  blind  was  raised 
and  the  sheet  was  lifted,  and  a  hush  of  admiration  ensued  as  if 
what  they  gazed  at  had  been  a  corpse,  and  when  they  were  gone 
the  school-teacher  went  back  again  to  lower  the  blind  and  rub 
the  marks  of  their  hot  hands  off  the  electroplate.  For  her 
discarded  bicycle  Fondie  gave  the  full  amount  of  Blanche's 
commission,  to  wit,  thirty  shillings,  so  that  his  margin  of  profit 
under  the  most  favorable  circumstances  could  not  have  been 
wide.  Moreover  he  turned  the  bicycle's  renovation  into  such 
a  labor  of  love,  and  so  took  it  to  pieces  and  reassembled  it,  and 
enameled  the  frame  and  mudguards,  and  re-corded  the  chain- 
protector,  and  aluminum-painted  the  rims  and  spokes,  that  those 
who  had  known  the  bicjxle  in  its  scholastic  days  exclaimed  with 
astonishment : 

"Yon's  nivver  Hopwood  lass'  bicycle,  hooivver!" 

Even  the  wheelwright  was  stirred  to  speculation  by  the  sight 
of  its  shining  parts,  though  his  brow  darkened  when  he  learned 
for  what  customer  it  was  designed. 

"Has  thoo  gotten  money  for  it?"  he  asked  tersely,  and 
when  Fondie  answered,  "Why,  not  before  bicycle's  fittled, 
feythur !"  turned  his  back  on  a  transaction  so  futile  and  profit- 
less. 

Nevertheless,  the  transaction  was  not  so  destitute  of  business 
principle  as  the  wheelwright  deemed.  Blanche  had  had  the 
bicycle  less  than  a  week  when  she  came  to  Fondie  in  the  work- 
shop and  put  half  a  crown  into  his  hand,  saying  that  was  the 
first,  and  she  would  go  on  bringing  other  payments  until  the 
bicycle  was  paid  for. 

"Don't  forget,  Fondie.  That's  half  a  crown.  Don't  go  and 
say  I  haven't  paid  it." 

Not  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  pressed  into  Judas'  hand 
could  have  burned  more  hell-hot  than  the  coin  that  Blanche 


214  FONDIE 

thus  frankly  thrust  into  Fondie's  palm.  Love,  pride,  and  every 
emotion  that  his  nature  held  rose  up,  outraged  and  protesting, 
w^hile  his  lips  uttered  their  submissive  "Thank  you,  miss."  He 
assured  her  she  needed  to  have  no  fear  of  his  forgetfulness, 
and  while  the  hot  emblem  still  gnawed  at  the  hand  that  held  it, 
asked,  in  a  husky,  surreptitious  voice,  if  the  payment  "was 
quite  convenient,  miss?"  Blanche  said  with  engaging  candor 
that  it  wasn't.  "I  should  be  sorry  .  .  ."  Fondie  began,  and 
weighed  the  coin  openly  in  his  hand  as  though  to  let  the  Vicar's 
daughter  see  its  transfer  was  not  irrevocable,  and  that  the  mo- 
ment was  not  yet  too  late  for  her  to  repair  this  financial  In- 
discretion if  she  had  the  mind.  "I'se  not  i'  onny  particular 
need  of  it,  miss.  Next  week,  or  week  after,  or  any  time  will 
suit  me  so  far  as  that's  consarned."  Blanche  said,  "Will  it?'* 
and  with  quick  decision,  "Well,  look  here,  Fondie.  Give  me 
eighteenpence,  and  let's  make  the  payment  a  shilling.  Do  you 
mind?    You  know  what  He  is." 

So  the  eighteenpence  went  back  to  Blanche  and  the  shilling 
into  Fondie's  pocket,  and  Blanche  said:  "Now  don't  forget, 
Fondie.  That's  a  shilling  I've  paid  you.  Don't  go  and  say 
I  haven't."  And  Fondie  said  she  was  to  feel  no  anxiety  on 
that  score;  and  every  now  and  then  Blanche  would  come  to 
tender  some  further  payment  on  account — shillings  and  six- 
pences, and  even  threepenny-bits.  All  the  money  thus  received 
from  Blanche  went  into  a  small  wooden  box  that  Fondie  kept 
piously  and  solely  for  the  purpose.  No  other  money  was  al- 
lowed to  mix  with  Blanche's  sacred  currency,  for  by  this  ex- 
pedient he  sought  to  mitigate  the  Indignity  of  which  his  love 
was  conscious  each  time  his  hand  accepted  payment  of  Blanche, 
and  to  soften  the  stern  outlines  of  the  mercenary  relations  be- 
tween them.  At  the  remote  back  of  his  mind,  too,  was  a  hope 
— a  frail,  pallid,  phosphorescent  hope  like  a  diluted  moonbeam, 
making  any  fact  it  shone  on  gleam  unreal  and  ghostly;  a  hope 
straj^d  from  all  restraint  of  probability — that  some  day,  by 
thus  keeping  Blanche's  money  intact,  he  might  be  able  to  return 


FONDIE 


215 


it  to  her,  either  in  its  own  guise  or  in  some  form  more  con- 
sonant with  the  depth  of  his  affection.  And  now  and  again,  in 
adding  to  this  exchequer  some  crooked  sixpence  or  slapy  three- 
penny-bit that  Blanche  had  paid  him — knowing  that  Fondie 
would  never  question  any  coin  that  came  from  her  fingers,  or 
put  any  metal  so  consecrated  to  the  test  of  his  teeth,  or  shake 
his  head  over  it  rejectfully,  as  other  people  might  do — he  would 
gaze  at  the  little  treasury  of  small  silver  pieces  as  though  they 
represented  the  precious  particles  of  Blanche's  self.  For  each 
one  of  these  financially  insignificant  coins  had  come  from 
Blanche;  it  had  nestled  in  the  warm  darkness  of  her  comfortable 
pocket,  and  even  now  retained — surely — some  vestige  of  the 
impress  of  her  fingers.  It  was  a  great  thought.  He  thought 
it  often.  Though  infinitely  sad,  there  was  a  certain  sustaining 
comfort  in  it. 


II 


ONE  consequence  of  Blanche*s  bicycle — mournfully  fore- 
seen by  Fondie,  yet  bowed  to  with  the  resignation  be- 
fitting a  decree  of  Providence — was  that  Blanche 
showed  herself  less  within  the  boundaries  of  her  father's  parish. 
For,  as  she  demanded  of  herself  and  everybody — her  father 
not  excepted — "What  was  there  to  do  in  Whivvle?"  She 
supplied  her  own  answer,  "There  was  nothing,"  and  treated 
to  scorn  the  Vicar's  pious  apothegm  that  to  those  who  did  their 
duty  there  was  no  place  or  walk  in  life  but  offered  them  more 
than  a  sufficiency  to  do.  Who,  said  Blanche  rebelliously, 
wanted  to  do  their  duty  ?  She  w^s  sick  of  duty.  She  was  sick 
of  doing  things  that  had  to  be  done,  and  her  father  said,  Ah! 
it  was  a  pity  he  had  not  been  firmer  with  her  and  given  her 
more  of  such  things  to  do.  The  time  was  coming — he  foresaw 
it — when  his  daughter  would  turn  round  upon  him  and  bitterly 
reproach  his  misguided  leniency  and  indulgence.  Already  he 
recognized  that  her  age  was  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  discipline. 


2i6  FONDIE 

She  was  what  she  was;  he  could  not  alter  her,  now,  by  any 
process  of  authority.  Less  and  less  did  he  awaken  from  his 
vicarial  slumber  and  gird  his  loins  for  righteousness,  impound- 
ing jewelry  and  prohibiting  hose  and  reordering  the  house  on 
strictly  Christian  principles,  with  a  loud  voice  and  a  strong 
hand.  He  found  it  easier  to  shake  his  head  and  say  he  had 
done  his  best.  He  had  tried  to  bring  them  up  the  right  way. 
They  must  not  blame  him.  They  must  not  blame  him  when 
he  was  gone. 

Blanche's  further  experiments  with  the  young  gentleman  of 
the  old  house  had  ended  in  failure.  She  relegated  him  to  that 
hopeless  limbo  for  human  impracticablas  to  which  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  had  been  long  ago  consigned.  True,  she  had  not 
suffered  him  to  sink  into  this  terrible  abyss  without  courageous 
efforts  to  save,  and  even  to  reclaim  him ;  going  the  length  of 
pointing  out  the  undesirable  nature  of  Fondie  Bassiemoor's 
companionship,  and  exhorting  the  young  gentleman  not  to  be 
sickening  "like  him,"  and  to  make  himself  laughed  at — for 
the  young  gentleman,  under  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  pernicious 
influence,  displayed  a  horrible  tendency  to  be  absurdly  truthful 
and  ridiculously  conscientious,  and  (indirectly)  to  rebuke 
Blanche  for  her  lack  of  these  vaunted  qualities  by  adducing 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  possession  of  them,  and  setting  up  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  as  a  standard  for  the  settlement  of  all  ethical  diffi- 
culties. Blanche  took  him  up  the  tower  on  one  occasion,  when 
he  was  at  music  with  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  invading  the  church 
for  the  particular  purpose.  So  obviously  was  the  young  gentle- 
man under  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  influence  that  at  first  he  actu- 
ally said  he  did  not  want  to  go,  and  then  asked  Fondie,  "Shall 
I?  Do  you  mind?"  and  only  went  when  Blanche  told  him, 
"You  needn't  come  if  you  don't  want.  I  don't  care.  I  can 
go  with  myself,  I  aren't  frightened!"  and  when  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  further  recommended  him,  "Why  I'se  fit  ti  think 
you  ought  to  go  and  have  a  look  fro'  top,  sir,  if  it's  fost  time 
you've  been.    There's  a  grand  view  fro'  summit,  and  it's  a  likely 


FONDIE  217 

day  for  seeing  an'  all."  And  even  then,  demoralized  by  Fon- 
dle's  influence  and  example,  he  had  no  more  sense  of  what  was 
fitting  for  a  Vicar's  daughter  than  to  invite  Fondie  to  come 
too,  saying,  "Let's  all  go,"  though  Blanche  had  self-respect  and 
presence  of  mind  enough  to  veto  this  at  once.  "No.  What's 
the  good  of  Fondie  coming?  Besides,  Fondie's  been  before. 
Lots  of  times.  Fondie'd  rather  stay  where  he  is.  Wouldn't 
you,  Fondie?"  And  Fondie  said,  if  they'd  be  good  enough  ti 
excuse  him,  he  would,  miss.  "Ladders  is  a  bit  awkward  for 
three." 

So  the  young  gentleman  went,  albeit  reluctantly,  but  his 
heart  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  expedition.  All  he  did,  when 
they  came  out  upon  the  leads,  was  to  look  at  the  view  and  ask 
Blanche  questions  about  the  country:  whose  house  this  was, 
and  whose  house  that,  and  what  they  called  the  village  over 
there,  at  the  far  end  of  his  finger;  and  was  so  little  moved  to 
gallantry  by  Blanche's  smile  as  to  be  the  first  to  suggest  a 
descent,  on  no  better  ground  than  that  Fondie  would  be  wait- 
ing. He  seemed  dismayed  at  the  levity  with  which  Blanche 
retorted,  "Let  him  wait.  He's  used  to  waiting,"  in  a  voice 
as  unconcerned  as  if  she  had  been  speaking  of  her  own  father, 
and  not  of  the  paragon  of  all  virtues. 

Uneventfully  they  descended  the  steep  and  dust-velveted 
ladder  to  the  little  worm-eaten  door  at  the  foot  of  the  tower, 
beneath  the  organ-loft,  and  the  young  gentleman — regardless 
of  all  etiquette  in  such  cases — would  have  been  prepared  to  step 
into  the  nave  without  a  thought  if  Blanche  had  not  caught 
him  by  the  hand,  saying,  "Stop!"  and  restrained  him  from  an 
act  of  precipitation  so  disrespectful  to  a  vicar's  daughter.  The 
young  gentleman,  though  his  color  rose,  inquired,  "What 
for?"  Blanche  said,  "Nothing.  What  did  you  think?"  As 
the  young  gentleman  appeared  to  have  no  thought  upon  the 
subject  that  Blanche  could  discover,  but  quietly  reclaimed  his 
hand,  Blanche  hastily  unscrewed  a  ring  of  dazzling  emeralds 
and  brilliants  from  her  third  finger  and  told  him  in  a  lowered, 


2i8  FOND  IE 

more  urgent  voice,  "Here.  Take  this."  Again  the  young 
gentleman  showed  his  ignorance  of  local  usage  by  looking  at 
the  ring  as  well  as  the  gloom  within  the  little  doorway  would 
let  him  and  asking,  "Why?" 

"To  wear,  of  course,"  Blanche  told  him.  "Until  we  meet 
next  time.     Like  this.     See?     Give  us  your  hand." 

And  she  took  his  dubious  but  unresisting  hand  again  and 
tried  the  ring  upon  its  fingers,  one  after  the  other.  Upon  such 
slender  digits  it  slipped  with  perilous  insecurity,  to  be  sure,  but 
Blanche  said  the  fingers  would  swell  if  he  held  his  hand  down 
and  let  the  blood  come  into  it.  The  young  gentleman,  however, 
thought  otherwise;  and  taking  off  the  ring  confided  to  him 
returned  it  to  Blanche  with  the  fear  expressed  that  perhaps 
he  might  lose  it.  Blanche  said,  "What  if  you  do?  I  don't 
care.  Fve  plenty  more."  Even  this  sweeping  assurance  failed 
to  reconcile  the  young  gentleman  to  the  sense  of  responsibility 
imposed  by  the  guerdon,  for  he  said  he  would  rather  not.  He 
would  be  sorry  to  lose  the  ring.  "Ask  Mr.  Bassiemoor  to  wear 
it  for  you.     He  has  much  stronger  fingers." 

"Him!"  exclaimed  Blanche  with  a  voice  of  scorn.  "Why 
are  5'Ou  always  throwing  him  at  me?  He's  nothing  to  do  with 
me." 

And  as  the  young  gentleman  betrayed  a  disposition  to  extol 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  virtues  somewhat  exorbitantly,  Blanche 
tendered  the  advice,  "Don't  you  go  and  make  yourself  as  bad 
as  him,  for  goodness'  sake."  She  deplored  the  young  gentle- 
man's growing  proclivity  for  the  organ,  which  she  regarded  as 
a  bad  sign,  and  predicted  that  no  good  would  come  of  it. 
"Whatever  do  you  want  to  play  a  fusty  old  organ  for?"  She 
hated  organs.  She  hated  the  very  sound  of  them.  They  were 
sickening.  Walks,  on  such  a  day  as  this,  were  infinitely  to  be 
preferred.  She  suggested — ^with  an  amazing  shamelessness  that 
took  the  young  gentleman's  breath  away,  "Let's  go  for  a  walk 
now.  Come  on.  And  leave  him.  He'll  never  notice.  He'll 
be  all  right.     He'll  shut  up  at  tea-time."     Such  an  audacious 


FOND  IE  219 

proposition  of  disloyalty  brought  the  young  gentleman  back  to 
the  sense  of  his  own  immediate  obligations,  and  he  said  now 
he  really  must  be  going. 

Deeming  that  this  attempt  to  rescue  the  young  gentleman* 
from  the  perils  confronting  him  owed  much  of  its  fruitlessness 
to  the  direct  personal  influence  of  Fondie,  Blanche  invited  him 
to  accompany  her  on  some  other  occasion — ''When  he  isn't 
there.  Just  the  two  of  us.  Come  on" ;  adding  in  a  reproachful 
tone:  "You  can  go  to  church  alone  to  meet  him.  Why  can't 
you  come  to  church  to  meet  me?  Don't  you  want  to?  You 
can  tell  me  if  you  don't.  I  aren't  frightened  of  being  told. 
I  don't  care.  There  are  other  places  I  can  go  to,  with  other 
people." 

And  to  these  other  places,  with  these  other  people,  she  ulti- 
mately went,  for  the  influence  of  Fondie  Bassiemoor  deepened 
perceptibly  over  the  young  gentleman  of  the  old  house,  to  such 
extent  that  Blanche  never  seemed  able  to  meet  the  young 
gentleman  nowadays  alone — even  w^hen  they  came  upon  each 
other  unaccompanied.  Always  the  specter  of  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor appeared  to  stand  by  the  young  gentleman's  elbow,  or 
to  look  out  of  the  young  gentleman's  eyes ;  and  the  young  gentle- 
man's lips  uttered  what  they  had  to  say  as  though  with  a  hesi- 
tating reference  to  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  lips,  and  the  name 
and  virtues  of  Fondie  Bassiemoor  were  sickeningly  and  perpetu- 
ally in  his  mouth.  He  could  scarcely  sustain  Blanche's  com- 
pany for  a  minute  but  he  must  introduce  this  over-familiar 
name,  asking  Blanche  if  she  had  seen  Mr.  Bassiemoor  of  late — 
as  though  Blanche  wanted  to  see  him — and  paying  tribute  to 
Fondie's  estimable  qualities,  which  of  all  Fondie's  qualities  she 
least  wanted  to  be  bothered  with.  For  Blanche  did  not  seek 
to  be  trammeled  with  ideals  and  ethical  abstractions,  and  the 
dry  caput  mortuum  of  the  conscience.  Blanche  sought  flesh 
and  blood,  and  the  companionship  of  human  peccadillos  and 
ebullient  materiality  like  her  own.  Conscience  only  darkened 
life  and  shrouded  the  sun,  and  truth  and  constancy  and  all  the- 
15 


220  FONDIE 

sickening  ideals  of  duty  were  (for  the  Vicar's  smileful  daugh- 
ter) but  dismal  curtains  drawn  over  the  sunlit  windows  of  the 
heart. 


Ill 

THE  year  that  had  wrought  so  few  changes  in  the  out- 
ward features  of  the  place  he  lived  in  had  wrought  (it 
seemed  to  Fondie)  infinitely  fewer  in  the  region  of  his 
ovim  mind.  He  was,  for  all  that  the  closest  introspection  could 
reveal  to  him,  disappointingly  the  selfsame  Fondie  of  the  year 
before;  filled  with  the  selfsame  faults  and  imperfections,  and 
those  futile  aspirations  that  sought  to  remove  them.  And  for 
all  that  he  had  applied  himself  diligently  to  the  study  of  syntax 
and  orthography  during  the  twelvemonth,  he  seemed  no  nearer 
to  kissing  Blanche  than  before,  and  there  appeared  singularly 
little  in  the  pages  of  the  young  gentleman's  much-inked  and 
dog-eared  grammar  to  show  him  how  it  should  be  done.  Even 
the  young  gentleman  was  puzzled — and,  if  the  truth  be  told, 
somewhat  disappointed — at  his  pupil's  lack  of  success  in  this 
romantic  field;  for  frequently  the  conversation  between  him 
and  the  wheelwright's  son  turned  upon  the  theme  of  Blanche, 
and  if  Fondie  mentioned  having  been  in  her  company  he  would 
fix  his  eye  on  Fondie  and  ask  in  a  confidential  and  momentous 
voice,  "Did  you  .  .  .  ?"  or  "Have  you  .  ,  .  ?"  and  Fondie 
would  assume  a  look  befitting  failure  and  misdoot  he  didn't 
or  he  hadn't,  sir.  It  had  come  into  his  head  (sir),  he  would 
confess,  but  moment  hadn't  seemed  favorable.  Perhaps  the 
meeting  had  taken  place  in  the  workshop  at  the  end  of  the 
wheelwright's  yard,  whither  (it  may  have  been)  Blanche  had 
journeyed  to  tender  one  of  her  trepid  instalments  for  the  bicycle, 
in  the  hope  that  Fondie  might  say  it  didn't  matter,  and  he 
would  be  sorry  for  her  to  put  herself  about,  miss ;  and  any  time 
would  do. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  231 

**rse  jealous  you  wouldn't  say  that  was  a  moment  I  ought 
tiv  'a  chosen,  sir." 

To  which  the  young  gentleman  would  subscribe  a  dubious 
*'No." 

But  wherever  the  meeting  had  taken  place,  the  conjunction 
of  time  and  circumstance  and  Fondie's  state  of  mind  had  never 
been  propitious.  And  he  misdooted  that  grammer  didn't  look 
like  doing  him  a  deal  of  good  in  young  lady's  eyes,  sir.  Harmo- 
nium hadn't.  First  she  said  he  was  all  hymns  and  psalm-tunes, 
and  now  (said  the  young  lady)  he  was  all  nouns  and  verbs. 
She  asked  him  what  he  wanted  to  bother  his  head  with  gram- 
mar for — "Nobody  makes  you" — ^which,  as  Fondie  confided  to 
the  faithful  partner  of  his  aspirations,  ''was  a  question  I 
couldn't  very  well  reply  to,  sir,  wi'oot  speaking  truth,  and  I'se 
jealous  she  would  nobbut  'a  laughed  at  that." 

If  Fondie  had  only  taken  the  Devil's  oft-repeated  counsel  at 
this  juncture  he  would  have  forsworn  the  demoralizing  company 
of  subjects  and  predicates  and  substantival  clauses  and  sought 
some  straighter,  surer  cut  to  Blanche's  favor.  He  needed  no 
better  pathway  to  her  good  graces,  indeed,  than  his  own  sunny, 
though  mistrusted  smile.  But  in  much  earnest  conference  with 
the  young  gentleman  it  had  been  decided  that,  above  all,  Fondie 
must  win  the  Vicar's  daughter  by  the  romantic  and  desperate 
expedient  of  making  himself  worthy  of  her — which  is  the  last 
resource  of  uncourageous  lovers,  and  certainly  the  last  way 
in  the  world  that  Blanche  Bellwood  sought  to  be  wt)n,  either 
by  Fondie  Bassiemoor  or  any  other. 

So,  deliberately  forsaking  the  easy  and  pleasant  path  that 
the  Devil  pointed  out  to  him  with  obliging  fore-finger,  Fondie 
discarded  all  the  natural  armor  with  which  Providence  had 
endowed  him  for  conquest  in  the  jousts  of  love,  and  traveled 
as  a  pilgrim  over  those  rugged  and  precipitous  ways  that  all 
fanatics  and  the  foolish  tread  who  seek  to  reach  love  by  way 
of  the  higher  purpose.  Fondie  found  it  easier  to  aspire  after 
knowledge  than  to  attain  it,  and  if  the  book  that  the  young 


222  FONDIE 

gentleman  lent  him  made  some  things  plain,  it  made  a  multi- 
tude exceedingly  obscure,  like  a  lamp  flashed  in  the  eye  of  him 
who  would  see  by  it.  He  confessed  to  the  young  gentleman 
that  he  misdooted  he  had  taen  up  book-larning  ower-late  in  life, 
and  that  instead  of  diminishing  his  imperfections  it  only  served 
to  show  him  how  many  there  were,  besides  being  a  source  of 
constant  vexation  to  his  father,  on  whose  account  (Fondie  was 
jealous)  he  ought  to  give  the  reading  habit  up.  "My  fey- 
thur,"  said  he,  "is  not  a  young  man,  sir.  I  misdoot  I  ought 
to  respect  his  wishes,  few  years  longer  he  has  ti  live.  Book 
vexes  him.  Maybe  he  sees  folly  on  it  better  than  me.  He 
says  larning  has  spoiled  as  many  men  as  drink."  The  wheel- 
wright, in  effect,  said  infinitely  more  than  this,  though  Fondie's 
filial  deference  made  no  chronicle  of  it.  The  sight  of  Fondie*s 
concentrated  forehead  supported  on  Fondie's  two  hands  when 
Fondie  pored  over  book  and  paper  on  the  kitchen  table  at  such 
times  as  no  more  private  and  convenient  place  was  available 
roused  the  wheelwright's  infinite  disgust,  and  so  wrought  on 
him  that  he  demanded  (though  not  of  Fondie,  deeming  direct 
appeal  to  such  a  source  beneath  the  dignity  of  his  years  and 
beard,  but  of  his  daughter,  to  whom  he  addressed  the  question 
indirectly,  in  order  that  its  shaft  of  sarcasm  might  be  more 
barbed)  : 

"Wha's  amiss  wi'  him?     Has  he  ower-eaten  hissen?" 

"Naught's  amiss  wi'  him  that  I  know  on,"  Fondie's  sister 
would  reply,  "though  summut  soon  will  be  at  this  rate.  Much 
good  asking  him  anything.    Forever  set  reading  book." 

"Book!"  exclaimed  the  wheelwright.  "Hasn't  he  done  wi* 
books,  time  o'  life  he's  gotten  ti?  He'll  gan  back  ti  bottle 
next,  and  expect  thee  ti  feed  him." 

"More  he  reads,  less  he  knaws,"  Fondie's  sister  affirmed 
with  the  subacidulated  voice  which  usually  characterized  her 
when  at  home.  "Ask  him  if  he  knaws  how  anybody  is,  and 
whether  doctor's  callin'  still,  and  see  what  answer  vou'U 
get." 


FONDIE 


223 


"Not  me,"  cried  the  wheelwright  contemptuously.  *'I 
wean't  ask  him  onnything  aboot  onnybody." 

"Nice  company  he  is  for  folk,  ti  be  sure,"  Fondie's  sister 
complained.  "Grate  cleaned  up  and  kitchen  sided  and  cloth 
on  table,  an  him  wi*  his  nose  stuck  i*  yon  book  and  nought 
ti  say  for  hissen.  One  mud  set  here  all  night  and  larn 
nothing." 

By  this  process  of  venting  mutual  acrimonies  father  and 
daughter  would  sometimes  colloquize  and  be  amicably  at  one, 
though  it  was  a  point  of  principle  with  the  wheelwright  never 
to  engage  with  his  daughter,  or  with  anybody  else,  in  any  agree- 
able topic.  Subjects  calling  for  mere  amenities  or  friendliness 
were  beneath  his  manly  dignities  and  beard.  But  when  the 
conversation  reached  a  stage  of  rancor  or  acerbity  he  could 
enter  in  and  take  his  part  without  any  compromise  of  dignity 
or  principle.  Fondie,  on  his  side,  never  complained;  never 
protested.  He  offered,  indeed,  to  put  the  book  out  of  his 
father's  sight  if  it  offended,  but  the  wheelwright — with  the 
habitual  perversity  that  declined  to  be  propitiated  by  the  least 
concession  to  it — said.  Not  him.  He  would  put  the  book  out 
of  sight  for  himself,  nobbut  Fondie  left  it  in  his  road;  and,  as 
Fondie's  mother  said:  "Thoo  knaws  thy  feythur's  way.  Tek 
ni  notice.     Say  newt  ti  vex  him." 

Not  alone,  however,  did  Fondie  meet  with  opposition  to  this 
new  culture  of  the  best  in  him  in  his  father's  kitchen.  There 
were  difficulties  to  be  confronted  abroad  as  well  as  at  home. 
To  parade  his  aspirates  before  the  face  of  his  fellow-men,  put- 
ting as  much  punctilious  breath  before  the  words  requiring  it  as 
would  blow  out  his  candle  at  bedtime,  cost  more  of  Fondie's 
courage  than  many  could  conceive.  The  act  took  as  much 
doing  as  the  saying  of  one's  praj^ers  in  public,  and  to  Fondie 
savored  as  much  of  a  lack  of  nice  feeling  as  to  flaunt  money 
before  the  eyes  of  an  insolvent,  or  to  eat  with  gusto  before  the 
gaze  of  the  unfed.  When  Fondie  tried  to  say  "home"  for 
the  first  time  in  the  place  defined  by  the  word,  after  the  manner 


224  F  O  N  D  I  E 

demonstrated  by  the  young  gentleman  and  piously  rehearsed 
to  pattern  in  the  chancel,  he  was  two  whole  days  before  he 
could  bring  himself  to  a  task  exacting  so  much  from  his  forti- 
tude, and  when  at  last  he  screwed  up  his  courage  to  pronounce 
the  word  (though  in  a  self-consciously  modified  form,  and  with 
the  least  quantity  of  breath  that  would  blow  it)  he  dropped  his 
eyes  as  if  he  had  confessed  a  crime,  and  blushed  like  a  lobster. 
The  house  roof  did  not  collapse  in  the  terrible  pause  that  fol- 
lowed, as  he  had  feared  it  might;  nor  was  his  father  struck 
to  stone  in  his  chair,  as  Fondie's  apprehensions  partly  expected, 
but  the  wheelwright  demanded  with  intolerance,  "What's 
thoo  say?  Diz  thoo  mean  yam?"  And  Fondie's  sister  ex- 
claimed, "Lawks-a-massye,  we  are  growing  grand!  We 
shan't  know  folk  after  awhile."  And  Fondie's  self  was  as 
remorseful  as  could  be,  and  said  he  misdooted  he  meant  ti  say 
*'awm" — (Why  didn't  he,  then?  the  wheelwright  demanded. 
Neabody  hindered  him!) — but  the  other  word  had  slipped 
out  unbeknawn.  He'd  gotten  it  fro'  young  gentleman.  And 
his  father  admonished  him:  "What  belongs  him  dizzn't  belang 
thee.  Thoo's  a  wheelwright,  or  should  be.  Thoo's  thy  living 
ti  get.  Thoo  can't  wear  his  troosers.  Thoo's  n'  occasion  ti 
put  on  his  manners  that  wasn't  intended  for  thee." 

All  these  doubts  and  difficulties  were  duly  laid  by  Fondie 
before  the  young  gentleman,  and  the  3'Oung  gentleman,  whilst 
admitting  they  had  a  certain  relevancy,  did  not  regard  them 
as  insuperable.  "It  seems,  sir,"  Fondie  told  him  with  a  certain 
despondency,  "one  can't  mek  oneself  better  i'  one  respect  wi'oot 
mekking  oneself  warse  i'  another.  Sin'  I  started  wi'  harmon- 
ium, and  of  late  wi'  grammar,  I'se  jealous  Fse  not  been  si 
obedient  ti  my  feythur  as  I  ought  tiv  'a  been,  or  so  considerate 
ti  folk  aboot  me.  There's  mony  a  time  Fse  shut  mysen  up 
selfish-like  wi'  book,  when  maybe  I  mud  'a  used  time  ti  do  a  bit 
o'  good  for  somebody  else."  He  misdooted  that  it  couldn't 
make  a  deal  of  difference  to  his  sister  whatever  way  he  spoke, 
and  he  confessed  the  justness  of  her  reproach  that  asked  him 


FONDIE  225 

what  was  the  good  of  folk  laming  ti  say  things  the  right  way  in 
order  to  say  nothing?  Rough  speech  (sir)  had  served  his 
father  all  his  life,  and  made  him  a  better  wheelwright  than 
Fondie  could  ever  hope  to  be ;  and  it  seemed  now  as  if  he  were 
setting  himself  up  above  his  father  when  he  rejected  his  father's 
speech  and  applied  himself  to  learn  a  better.  "It's  a  small 
thing  ti  gie  up,  sir,"  he  confided;  "an'  maybe  I  should  be 
easier  i'  my  mind  if  I  fell  in  wi'  my  feythur's  wishes.  If  any- 
thing was  ti  happen  him  sudden  noo,  I  knaw  I  should  reproach 
myself." 

But  the  young  gentleman  would  hear  of  no  renunciation  of 
the  sort.  He  said  that  Fondie  was  far  too  self-sacrificing;  far 
too  generous  and  submissive.  He  had  never  encountered 
anybody  so  amazingly  unselfish  before.  But  this  quality  of 
unselfishness  ought  to  have  its  limits.  Fondie — the  young 
genleman  was  of  opinion — ought  to  assert  himself  more.  People 
misunderstood  modesty,  and  took  advantage  of  it.  ''She 
does."  And  the  young  gentleman  exhorted  Fondie  to  persevere 
and  to  assert  himself,  and  to  give  over  respecting  those  people 
who  did  not  respect  him.  Mainly  owing  to  the  young  gentle- 
man's influence  Fondie  began  to  shake  off  his  instinctive  dispo- 
sition to  misdoot,  which  by  degrees  he  did  scarcely  at  all  in  the 
young  gentleman's  company,  and  only  reserved  this  form  of 
dubiety  for  the  benefit  of  customers  of  long  standing,  and  such 
familiars  as  would  have  noted  the  discontinuance  of  the  habit. 
And  similarly  Fondie  made  compromises  with  the  English 
tongue  in  public,  and  became  to  all  intents  and  purposes  bi- 
lingual. In  the  church,  or  elsewhere,  he  spoke  to  the  young 
gentleman  of  "harmonium"  and  "home"  and  "Hunmouth,"  and 
said  "I  am,  sir,"  and  "Were  you,  sir?"  in  a  voice  of  polite 
correctness;  whereas  in  public  he  systematically  dropped  one  h 
in  every  three  out  of  consideration  for  his  hearers'  feeling,  and 
said  "I  misdoot"  and  "I'se  fit  ti  think"  and  "nobbut"  and 
"jealous,"  as  before.  Nevertheless,  signs  of  aspirations  in  a 
dual  sense  were  sufficiently  apparent  in  him — howsoever  mod- 


226  FOND  IE 

estly  mitigated — as  to  give  rise  to  a  legend  in  Whiwle  that 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  was  trying  to  larn  himself  into  a  gentleman 
by  means  of  books;  and  jocund  customers,  going  into  the 
wheelwright's  yard,  would  feign  surprise  at  seeing  Fondie  in 
his  blue  drill  breeches:  "What!  Is  thoo  at  wark  still,  Fondie? 
I  thought  thoo  was  retired,  like." 

Not  that  Fondie  minded.  The  man  who  can  bear  to  be 
laughed  at  is  already  half  heroic,  and  Fondie  had  the  young 
gentleman's  friendship  to  sustain  him  against  all  the  jibes  of 
thoughtlessness  and  envy.  One  good  opinion  prized  can  arm 
the  spirit  against  a  host  of  bad,  and  render  even  'modesty  in- 
vulnerable. The  word  "friendship,"  to  be  sure,  was  not  of 
Fondie's  choosing,  and  he  would  have  been  the  last  to  presume 
upon  the  use  of  such  a  sacred  term,  but  the  young  gentleman — in 
the  realm  of  their  own  confidence — would  accept  no  substitute, 
overruling  Fondie's  modest  objections,  and  telling  him,  "I 
don't  want  you  to  respect  me;  at  least,  when  we  are  alone. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  when  he's  there.  I  want  you  to  be 
friends."  To  which  end  he  demurred  at  Fondie's  insistence 
on  the  addressive  "sir,"  though  he  assented  reluctantly  to 
Fondie's  submission  that  the  term  was  as  short  and  handy  as 
any  (sir)  and  there  didn't  seem  a  deal  of  other  words  left  him 
to  choose  from. 

The  weekly  meetings  at  the  church  suffered  less  interruption 
as  time  went  on,  and  the  young  gentleman's  presence  in  the 
wheelwright's  yard  became  quite  customary.  He  even  entered 
into  discourse  with  the  proprietor  of  the  formidable  beard,  and 
though  the  beard's  principles  throughout  life  had  been,  and 
still  were,  to  express  no  gratification  at  anything — except, 
perhaps,  at  the  tidings  of  somebody's  else  disaster,  which  the 
beard  w^ould  pronounce  a  judgment — it  knew  a  gentleman  when 
it  saw  one  as  well  as  Fondie  did,  and  returned  "Good  day"  to 
this  one's  salutation  with  such  comparative  promptitude  that 
any  eye-witness  aware  of  Joe  Bassiemoor's  habit  in  these  matters 
would  have  said  he  was  almost  glad  to  see  the  visitor — if  it 


FONDIE  227 

could  ever  have  been  credited  that  the  vi^heelwright  was  glad 
to  see  anybody. 

Time,  too,  that  brought  the  young  gentleman  into  closer 
acquaintance  with  the  wheelwright's  yard — where  he  did  his 
best  to  remove  the  stigma  of  his  white  hands — ^brought  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  (through  the  medium  of  broken  window-cords  and 
defective  door-snecks)  into  closer  relation  with  the  old  house. 
It  was  not  very  long,  indeed,  before  he  came  to  occupy  some- 
thing approaching  the  nature  of  a  fiduciary  and  confidential 
position  toward  both  inmates,  and  even  the  steel  eye  and  the 
waxen  ear — ^within  the  entrenched  limits  of  their  august  reserve 
— showed  him  decided  tokens  of  condescension  and  favor,  en- 
couraged thereto  by  Fondie's  air  of  unspoilable  respect,  and 
declared  him  to  be  an  honest  fellow  and  a  conscientious  work- 
man. The  young  gentleman,  moreover,  gave  Fondie  special 
instruction  touching  his  grandfather's  idiosyncrasies,  being  at 
no  small  pains  to  teach  him  the  proper  modulation  of  voice  for 
intercourse  with  the  obdurate  ear,  so  that  by  degrees  the  ear 
obtruded  itself  less  and  less  when  Fondie  spoke  to  it,  dispensing 
ultimately  with  all  use  of  the  hand,  and  the  old  gentleman 
could  hear  what  Fondie  modestly  communicated  without  be- 
traying the  least  pain  in  his  forehead. 

It  came  to  pass,  therefore,  that  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
the  old  house,  both  within  doors  and  without,  Fondie  was 
consulted,  and  the  most  trifling  matters  of  repair  were  utilized 
by  the  young  gentleman  as  a  text  for  calling  at  the  wheel- 
wright's yard  to  invoke  the  aid  of  his  peculiar  friend.  Even  the 
old  gentleman  was  not  so  crucified  to  a  principle  of  exclusive- 
ness  as  to  be  indifferent  to  the  opportunities  of  listening  to  his 
own  voice  that- Fondie's  presence  provided,  and  once  the  fact  of 
Fondie's  unfailing  deference  was  fixed,  he  showed  a  disposition 
to  discourse  augustly  on  the  subjects  dear  to  his  heart,  such  as 
the  significance  of  heraldic  emblems  and  the  rules  of  blazonry 
and  the  distinction  of  houses  and  the  different  sorts  of  arms 
with  the  signification  in  their  bearers — to  all  of  which  Fondie 


228  FOND  IE 

paid  a  willing  and  respectful  attention.  And  the  young  gentle- 
man, after  Fondie  was  gone,  confided  to  his  grandfather  how 
impressed  Fondie  had  been  with  his  grandfather's  learning  and 
his  wealth  of  knowledge,  and  imputed  a  score  of  improvised 
tributes  to  Fondie,  whereat  the  old  gentleman  dissembled  his 
gratification  under  cloak  of  deducing  a  lesson  from  the  interest 
in  higher  knowledge  evinced  by  the  wheelwright's  son;  saying 
it  should  be  an  example  to  Lancelot,  and  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
that  he  made  so  little  use  of  his  own  advantages.  Which,  in 
regard  to  the  harmonium  and  musical  attainment,  represented 
almost  identically  the  line  of  reproach  that  the  Vicar  had  been 
wont  to  take  up  against  his  daughter.  Only,  in  the  young 
gentleman's  case,  the  rebuke  no  longer  fell  upon  indifferent  ears. 
Out  of  the  depths  of  his  desire  to  preserve  this  friendship 
unthreatened,  he  accepted  the  lesson  without  demur,  and  did 
his  best  to  show  his  grandfather  that  the  good  seed  of  Fondie 
Bassiemoor's  example  had  not  fallen  on  infructile  soil,  and  that 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  influence  was  an  influence  for  good. 
Inspired  by  which  incentive  the  young  gentleman  threw  himself 
into  the  pursuit  of  learning,  and  pored  over  Greek  and  wrestled 
with  Latin  hexameters,  and  emblazoned  coats  of  arms,  and  drew 
out  enormous  pedigrees  on  a  scale  of  six  inches  to  the  mile,  and 
transferred  birth  and  burial  figures  from  one  book  to  another 
with  the  industry  of  a  defaulting  cashier. 


IV 


ALL  this  while  the  great  hall  at  Mersham,  with  its  shut- 
ters drawn  and  its  blinds  lowered,  reflected  the  sun 
and  cloud  from  its  sightless  windows,  staring  out  ex- 
pressionless upon  the  park  like  a  blind  man  across  the  pages  of 
his  Braille  Bible  in  the  moments  when  he  thinks  no  likely  sym- 
pathizer watches.  The  miles  of  drive,  strewn  religiously  in 
Sir  Lancelot's  time  with  tons  of  the  finest  seaside  gravel,  and 


FONDIE 


229 


horse-raked  north,  south,  east  and  west  each  morning  to  a 
flawless  surface  for  the  steel-shod  wheels  of  the  baronet's  coach 
and  of  the  elegant  chariots  of  the  county  to  inscribe  their  sig- 
natures upon,  relapsed  into  mere  roads  of  utility,  fretted  with 
the  deep  ruts  of  the  tree  feller's  wagons  that  creaked  beneath 
the  burdens  of  prone  elm  and  prostrate  oak  in  the  damp  and 
soggy  days  of  winter.  From  time  to  time  odd  bands  of  work- 
men scaled  the  hall  roof  and  smoked  pipes  in  the  friendly  shelter 
of  its  chimneys,  enjoying  the  extended  view;  plumbers  and 
glaziers  and  bricklayers  whom  Rumor,  catching  sight  of — 
and  quick  at  conclusions — translated  into  portents  that  the 
great  house  was  to  be  occupied  at  last,  and  ran  about  the  coun- 
tryside claiming  credit  for  the  tidings,  asserting  the  very  date 
on  which  the  Mersham  glories  should  be  revived.  But  since 
the  day  when  Sir  Lancelot,  wrapped  in  lead  and  paneled  in 
mahogany,  had  been  pushed  to  rest  upon  the  marble  shelf  in 
the  massive  mausoleum  his  own  augustness  had  caused  to  be 
constructed  in  the  family  burial-ground  attached  to  the  church- 
yard, no  glory  worth  the  name  had  reanimated  Mersham,  nor 
had  anything  of  consequence  transpired  within  the  purview  of 
the  hall  to  make  it  raise  its  perpetually  lowered  eyelids  and  un- 
seal more  than  half  a  dozen  of  its  windows  at  one  time.  The 
hall  appeared  to  slumber  in  its  own  memories,  and  took  no 
more  account  of  external  things  than  the  dead  Sir  Lancelot  did. 
Picnic  parties,  by  kind  permission,  made  festive  rings  around 
their  victual-basket  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  big  trees,  leaving 
fruit-stained  paper  bags  behind  them  to  show  their  gratitude 
and  blow  into  the  moat.  And  school-feasts  had  been  celebrated 
in  the  park,  and  nuts  scrambled  for  in  the  grass,  and  kiss-in- 
the-ring  and  casual  cricket  played,  and  hymns  sighed  out  un- 
certainly at  nightfall  by  sleepy  children  with  mugs  tied  round 
their  necks,  and  cheers  raised  with  effort — despite  all  the  frenetic 
invocation  of  the  superintendent's  hand  and  the  contortions  of 
his  face  as  he  mouthed  "Hip!" — for  the  Squire,  to  whom,  and 
the  Almighty,  this  day's  celestial  happiness  was  due.     But  apart 


230  F  O  N  D  I  E 

from  such  pettifogging  manifestations  of  humble  life,  whose 
joys  showed  vain  and  futile  against  the  uncompromising  detach- 
ment of  the  stern  windows,  Mersham  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses evinced  no  greater  sign  of  vitality  than  the  marble  mauso- 
leum. As  for  its  present  owner,  few  could  say  with  any  cer- 
tainty what  kind  of  man  he  was.  To  be  sure,  the  church-bells 
had  rung  for  him  when  It  became  known  that  Mersham  Hall 
was  masterless  no  more;  and  the  school-children  were  given  a 
whole  day's  holiday,  so  that  their  parents  might  appreciate  the 
blessings  of  free  education  better  than  they  were  ordinarily 
disposed  to  do,  and  give  thanks  to  Heaven  at  nightfall  (as  not 
a  few  of  them  did)  that  school  would  reopen  on  the  morrow 
and  new  squires  had  not  to  be  celebrated  every  day.  And  the 
new  Squire,  m  course  of  time,  had  come  to  take  stock  of  his 
new  home,  with  a  couple  of  daughters — leaving  an  Invalid  wife 
in  the  South  of  France  and  an  only  son  at  school — but  the 
visit,  for  social  considerations,  was  kept  informal,  not  to  say 
promiscuous.  No  calls  were  paid  or  Interchanged.  The  Squire 
conferred  with  estate  agents,  legal  gentlemen,  and  the  repre- 
sentatives of  mortgagees  at  the  long  table  in  the. big  library 
overlooking  the  deerless  park  where  the  butcher's  cattle  grazed ; 
and  drove  over  the  estate  with  the  steward  in  the  steward's 
gig,  while  his  daughters  rummaged  through  all  the  rooms  and 
closets  of  the  big  house  In  chamois-leather  gloves,  being  kept  so 
busy  in  this  direction  as  to  remain  Invisible  to  the  expectant 
outer  world  that  only  snatched  its  fleeting  sight  of  them  in 
the  hired  landau  as  they  came  and  went.  Short  of  a  fortnight 
they  took  their  leave  for  the  South  of  France,  where  (it  was 
said)  they  lived  for  the  dual  purpose  of  health  and  economy, 
accompanied  by  four  great  hampers  of  portable  possessions  culled 
from  their  Mersham  home;  and  the  daws — temporarily  dis- 
lodged for  their  reception — began  to  build  again  unchallenged 
In  the  roof,  and  the  starlings  choked  the  Mersham  chimneys 
as  before.  Finally,  during  the  selfsame  summer  that  Blanche 
celebrated  her  seventeenth  birthday  and  obtained  her  bicycle 


FONDIE  231 

from  Fondle  Bassiemoor  on  the  deferred-payment  system,  Ru- 
mor (having  in  the  meantime  vindicated  her  credit  by  success- 
fully disposing  of  the  aud  hoose  at  Whiwie)  declared  that  the 
long  defunct  Flower  Show  at  Mersham  was  to  be  revived, 
and  that  the  young  Squire  (who  would  be  present  at  it)  was 
coming  to  make  his  home  at  the  rectory  to  prepare  for  college. 


THE  church  at  Mersham  was  a  very  different  church  from 
the  church  at  Whivvle,  and  the  rectory  a  very  different 
residence  from  the  vicarage,  and  the  Mersham  living 
a  very  different  thing  from  the  modest  stipend  that  Blanche's 
father  drew  quarterly  and  passed  into  his  bank  by  the  next  post ; 
and  the  Rector  of  Mersham  was  a  very  different  man  from  the 
Vicar  of  Whiwie. 

In  the  first  place  he  was  a  Rector — a  designation  on  which 
he  laid  much  pious  store,  striking  his  pen  intolerantly  through 
the  less  authoritative  title  when  misapplied  to  his  own  person, 
and  correcting  parishioners  with  a  promptitude  bordering  on 
petulance  when  they  employed  the  words  "Vicar"  and  "vicar- 
age" in  respect  to  himself  and  home. 

In  the  second  place,  he  did  not  owe  his  clerical  promotion  to 
the  Almighty  alone,  but  to  the  great  Sir  Lancelot,  and  it  was 
the  latter,  rather  than  the  former,  from  whom  he  derived  the 
main  part  of  his  authority  in  parochial  affairs,  and  whose  name 
— when  the  adjuvant  of  a  name  was  necessary — he  chiefly  in- 
voked. For  he  had  married  during  Sir  Lancelot's  lifetime  a 
distant  kinswoman  of  the  baronet  on  the  distaff  side,  and  so — 
almost  dispensing  with  any  derogatory  patronage  from  Heaven 
on  which  such  humble  clerics  as  the  Rev.  Henry  Bellwood  are 
driven  to  rely — was  brought  to  Mersham  by  no  devious  route. 
It  is  true  he  cut  no  great  figure  in  the  baronet's  lifetime,  for  the 
worthy  baronet  pertained  to  that  type  of  landed  autocrat,  rapidly 
obsolescent,   whom  clergymen  of  a   fast-expiring  school   were 


2Z2  F  O  N  D  I  E 

wont  \o  designate  "an  unbending  Churchman;"  by  which,  in 
Sir  Lancelot's  case  (as  in  many  another),  they  meant  to  say  he 
never  knelt  on  the  well-stuffed  hassocks  liberally  provided  for 
him,  or  made  the  least  profession  of  prayer,  but  sat  bolt  upright 
during  the  Liturgy,  and  not  Infrequently  through  the  hymns, 
with  the  manner  of  one  for  whose  augustness  the  common  ob- 
servances of  worship  devised  for  the  vulgar  were  not  intended, 
and  who  could  not  be  expected  to  subscribe  to  them:  standing 
up,  indeed,  only  when  the  parishioners  sat  down,  the  better  to 
take  stock  of  them  and  count  the  heads  of  the  assembled  tenantry 
as  if  they  had  been  sheep. 

But  the  truth  was.  Sir  Lancelot  went  little  to  church  at  all — 
church  being  regarded  by  him  merely  as  an  appanage  to  his 
state,  like  his  coaches,  horses,  mistresses,  gardeners,  and  grooms 
■^though  the  most  elaborate  provision  was  maintained  for  his 
exalted  comfort,  and  clerical  fiction  held  him  up  to  all  the 
world  as  an  exemplary  and  devoted  churchgoer;  watch  being 
kept  at  the  church  door  each  Sabbath  day  for  tokens  of  his 
coming,  so  that  if  necessary  the  ringing  of  the  service  bell  might 
be  indefinitely  prolonged  until  the  baronet  (pronounced  on  foot 
upon  the  private  pathway  from  the  hall  to  the  House  of  God 
by  messengers)  should  reach  the  place  elaborately  prepared  for 
him.  The  Mersham  pew,  In  which  during  latter  years  at  least 
he  sat  in  spacious  solitude — for  his  greatness  ultimately  seemed 
as  if  it  could  brook  no  worshipper  beside  him — looked  out  upon 
the  chancel  from  the  north,  raised  above  the  heads  of  the  con- 
gregation like  a  box  at  the  opera,  and  was  as  commodious  within 
as  a  bar-parlor,  and  infinitely  more  cosy.  There  was  an 
oaken  table  covered  with  a  red  cloth,  big  enough  for  a  rubber 
at  whist,  on  which  a  carafe  of  fresh  drinking  water,  surmounted 
by  a  tumbler,  stood ;  being  a  perpetual  feature  of  the  Mersham 
pew  since  the  day  when  my  lady  (being  at  that  time  pregnant, 
as  all  the  scholars  knew)  fainted  during  the  Litany,  and  had  to 
wait  to  be  revived  until  water  could  be  fetched  from  the  vestry 
in  the  verger's  trembling  hand;  whereat  Sir  Lancelot  swore 


FOND  IE  233 

and  asked  if  the  church  did  not  deem  his  thirst  of  as  much 
consequence  as  the  Rector's,  in  view  of  all  he  gave  to  it;  and, 
damme,  let  them  see  to  it  in  future — which,  damme,  they  did. 
And  there  was  a  great  stove  in  the  center  of  the  pew,  thrusting 
its  iron  chimney-pipe  ruthlessly  through  the  church  roof,  that 
the  baronet  poked  up  noisily  on  frosty  mornings  while  the 
parson  read  the  prayers,  till  it  glowed  red-hot  and  snored  like 
a  sleeper;  or  expressed  ostentatious  disapproval  of  its  warmth 
by  puffing  out  his  cheeks  and  making  blowing  noises — as  his 
grooms  did  when  they  washed  their  master's  horses — slamming 
the  stove  door  petulantly  with  his  foot.  As  for  chairs  for  the 
baronet  to  sit  on,  and  hassocks  for  the  baronet  to  kick  out  of 
his  way,  the  Mersham  pew  abounded  with  them,  all  displaying 
the  Mersham  arms  and  studded  with  brass  studs  bearing  the 
baronet's  crest.  The  Mersham  arms,  indeed,  and  the  arms  of 
innumerable  other  families  Involved  by  blood  and  marriage 
with  the  baronet's  own,  crept  into  every  ornament  of  the  church 
and  made  even  the  Biblical  allegories  of  the  east  window 
heraldic,  so  that  it  took  a  theologian  or  an  archaeologist  to  decide 
which  were  Mershams  and  which  Apostles;  wonderful  escutch- 
eons and  emblazoned  shields  adorned  the  spandrels  of  the 
arches,  proclaiming  the  expended  splendor  of  departed  Mer- 
shams; mural  tablets  and  marble  cenotaphs  cried  out  the  name 
of  Mersham  from  the  walls;  a  couple  of  noseless  and  disfea- 
tured Mershams  slept  side  by  side  in  alabaster,  with  hypocritical 
joined  hands  to  their  chins  in  protestation  of  apocryphal  piety, 
and  their  upturned  feet  upon  a  cushion  and  recumbent  hound. 
The  church  was  filled  with  Mershams  to  such  extent  that  there 
seemed  little  space  for  the  Almighty  left  in  it,  and  only  a  Mer- 
sham or  a  flunkey  could  have  worshipped  there  with  any  concen- 
tration or  comfort. 

Whilst  the  baronet  lived  the  Rector  made  a  principle  of 
involving  him  in  all  the  points  of  worship,  however  trifling,  that 
he  might  forge  the  name  of  Sir  Lancelot  into  an  efficient 
weapon  for  his  own  authority,  and  confound  parishoners  into 


234  F  O  N  D  I  E 

the  belief  that  he  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  on  far  closer  terms  than, 
in  sooth,  they  were;  to  which  end,  on  every  conceivable  occasion 
that  could  justify  a  conference  with  the  master  of  Mersham, 
and  many  that  could  not,  the  Rector  was  up  at  the  hall,  and 
made  more  use  of  the  great  door  and  the  stockinged  legs  behind 
it  than  did  any  other  three  visitors  combined.  Not  a  bottle  of 
port  ever  went  to  the  sick,  or  a  platter  of  soup  to  the  needy 
from  the  great  hall,  but  the  Rector  took  care  to  associate  himself 
with  Sir  Lancelot  in  the  benefaction ;  and  though  the  stockinged 
legs  and  powdered  flunkeys  at  Mersham  expressed  their  own 
views  in  no  hesitating  terms  between  themselves  as  to  Sir  Lance- 
lot's opinion  of  parsons — and  their  own — and  resented,  across 
the  servants'  table,  the  Rector's  unwearying  attachment  to  the 
great  doorbell,  they  dared  not  openly  resist  this  second  mas- 
tership imposed  upon  them  for  fear  of  incurring  Sir  Lancelot's 
uncertain  displeasure  at  second-hand,  and  the  choir  stalls  in 
Mersham  Church  were  consequently  filled  on  Sundays  with 
superfatted  tenor  footmen  and  corpulent  bass  coachmen  and 
alto  gardeners  and  grooms — looking  strangely  metamorphosed 
►  in  surplices — commixed  with  all  upon  Sir  Lancelot's  estate  who 
were  unhappily  afflicted  with  a  voice,  or  accused  of  one  by  the 
Rector. 

Into  this  Mersham  grandeur,  to  which  by  virtue  of  his  wife 
he  was  made  party,  the  Rector  threw  himself  heart  and  soul; 
allying  himself  with  all  the  Mersham  traditions  and  assimilating 
its  achievements  as  proudly  as  a  public  school  boy  espouses  the 
cause  and  glories  of  his  House;  cultivating  a  Christian  and 
gentlemanly  condescension  towards  such  humble  brethren  of 
the  cloth  as  had  no  more  than  their  own  godliness,  supplemented 
by  a  meagre  stipend,  to  rely  on ;  and  mixed  socially  with  them 
as  little  as  possible.  Once  in  a  twelvemonth  he  lent  the  purely 
priestly  part  of  him  (reserving  the  social  for  more  exclusive 
usage)  to  the  Vicar  of  Whiwle  for  a  harvest  thanksgiving  or 
missionary  service,  and  invited  the  Vicar  of  Whiwle  in  return 
to  occupy  the  Mersham  pulpit  on  unimportant  occasions,  such 


F  O  N  D  I  E  23S 

as  a  week-night  service  in  Lent,  but  their  intercourse  was  paro- 
chial only,  and  the  name  of  Sir  Lancelot  and  all  the  acres  of 
Mersham  divided  them  rigorously  in  other  respects.  If  he  had 
to  call  on  any  business  at  the  Whiwle  vicarage — and  without 
the  pretext  of  it  he  did  not  call  at  all — the  Rector  rode  over  on 
horseback,  as  a  rule,  and  discussed  the  matter  mounted,  at  the 
vicarage  door;  an  expedient  that  saved  him  the  necessity  of 
entering  the  Vicar's  house,  and  put  him  at  an  advantage  over 
his  colleague  in  emphasizing  the  distance  between  them  and 
illustrating  their  respective  positions,  whilst  the  Vicar  shaded 
his  eyes  with  a  hand  and  dodged  incontinently  the  movements 
of  the  Rector's  horse,  kept  throughout  the  interview  in  a  high 
state  of  restivity  by  the  Rector's  riding  crop  lest  it  might 
come  on  too  famih'ar  terms  with  the  Vicar  of  Whiwle  and 
betray  too  great  a  tolerance  of  its  surroundings.  On  this 
horse,  which  derived  from  a  famous  sire  of  Sir  Lancelot's  own 
stable,  and  boasted  a  pedigree  more  precise  and  lengthy  than 
the  Rector's  own,  he  went  once  a  week  to  hounds  in  the  hunting 
season,  and  dearly  loved  to  speak  of  himself  and  hear  him- 
self spoken  of  by  others  as  "the  hunting  parson" — though  all 
the  actual  hunting  he  did  might  have  been  done  as  well  at 
home. 

Of  the  orthodox  clerical  habiliment  he  retained  only  the 
white  tie  symbolical  of  spiritual  purity,  but  the  Roman  collar 
he  discarded  in  favor  of  one  as  like  Sir  Lancelot's  as  one  hand 
is  like  another.  In  place  of  the  thumbed  and  dispirited  soft 
felt  hat  that  crowned  with  lowliness  the  Vicar's  head  and  ac- 
commodated its  shape  to  every  wind  that  blew,  he  wore  a  hard 
and  uncompromising  felt  hat — black  in  winter  and  gray  in 
summer,  though  during  the  warm  weather  he  was  not  infre- 
quently to  be  seen  wearing  straw  or  a  soft  deer-stalker  cap  with 
twin  peaks.  As  for  broadcloth  or  clerical  blacks,  he  banished 
them  from  his  wardrobe,  and — except  on  Sundays  and  at 
funerals — approached  no  nearer  to  orthodoxy  in  this  respect 
during  the  week  than  by  suits  of  dark  gray  serge,  though  his 
16 


236  F  O  N  D  I  E 

preference  was  for  tweeds,  and  he  bestrode  his  parish  and  Sir 
Lancelot's  acres  in  checkered  knickerbockers  like  any  squire. 
Theologically  speaking,  his  creed  was  simple.  He  believed  God 
to  be  a  Conservative,  and,  quoting  in  his  own  favor  the  couplet 

A  good  old  Tory 
Is  England's  glory 

could  not  for  the  life  of  him  see  how  an  honest  man  in  his  right 
senses  could  incline  to  any  other  shade  of  politics,  asking: 
Who  were  the  men  who  had  made  England?  Who  were  the 
men  who  endowed  churches  and  did  not  flinch  from  accepting 
the  highest  honors  and  responsibilities  in  the  land  ?  Were  they 
the  poor?  Were  they  the  rabid  Nonconformists  and  profes- 
sional agitators?  No.  They  were  the  men  with  a  stake  in 
the  country,  men  of  boundless  liberality  and  unswerving  high 
principle  like  Sir  Lancelot,  who  held  the  Constitution  together, 
and  but  for  whom  the  laboring  class  would  starve.  And  so 
long  as  his  own  position  was  respected,  and  none  of  its  dignities 
infringed,  he  deprecated  discontent  in  all  ranks  of  society  below 
his  own.  In  a  country  that  distinguished  only  two  things, 
gentlemen  and  cattle — and  held  the  latter  to  be  infinitely  more 
worthy  of  the  former's  notice  than  any  intermediate  species  of 
his  own  kind — the  Rector  had  renounced  books  in  favor  of 
beasts,  and  dedicated  himself  to  agriculture  as  the  only  pursuit 
befitting  the  status  of  a  gentleman.  He  held  all  the  glebe  in 
his  own  hand  and  fattened  stock  like  any  farmer,  accounting  a 
fat  steer  or  shire  stallion  of  more  importance  than  the  sickest 
parishioner.  Every  morning  before  breakfast,  with  a  regularity 
as  unfailing  as  that  with  which  it  is  assumed  he  said  his  prayers, 
the  Rector  visited  his  stock  with  crusts  of  oil-cake  in  his  pocket, 
and  converted  live  flesh  into  butcher's  meat  with  more  energy 
than  souls  unto  righteousness.  Indeed,  quadrupeds  appeared 
to  be  his  true  parishioners,  and  the  ones  nearest  his  heart.  Not 
a  fresh-bought  beast  of  the  least  family  or  genealogical  preten- 


FOND  IE  837 

sion  within  the  borders  of  the  Mersham  county  but  he  called 
upon  it  without  delay,  and  for  ever>"  five  minutes  spent  by  the 
stuffy  bedside  of  the  sick  he  passed  whole  afternoons  in  the 
pungent  atmosphere  of  the  fold-yard.  When  a  parishioner  died 
he  accepted  God's  hand  with  Christian  philosophy,  saying  "Poor 
fellow;"  when  tidings  reached  him  of  the  untimely  demise  of 
some  bullock  ripe  for  market,  or  some  promising  quadruped 
struck  down  in  its  prime  by  lightning,  his  countenance  was 
seamed  with  consternation  as  though  such  an  outrageous  de- 
cree of  Heaven  were  incredible,  and  nothing  served  but  he 
must  mount  his  horse  forthwith  and  ride  away  to  elicit  more 
precise  details  of  the  calamity. 

During  Sir  Lancelot's  lifetime  his  position  had  not  been  de- 
void of  diplomatic  difficulty,  for  Sir  Lancelot  would  have 
thought  no  more  of  telling  a  parson  to  go  to  one  place  than  a 
parson  thinks  of  telling  his  parishioners  to  aim  for  another,  and 
in  his  dealings  with  this  august  patron  the  Mersham  Rector 
had  to  display  as  much  deference  and  tact  as  the  raggedest  tramp 
that  aspired  to  the  baronet's  coppers.  But  with  Sir  Lancelot's 
death  and  the  premature  demise  of  his  dispirited  heir  the  Rec- 
tor's social  stature  grew  and  seemed  to  thrive,  fungoid  fashion, 
upon  the  decaying  tissue  of  the  estate,  and  his  voice,  enriched 
with  undisputed  patronage  and  authority  never  questioned,  ma- 
tured in  body  like  a  vintage  port.  Where  the  Vicar  of  Whiv- 
vle  mistered  his  parishioners  almost  as  punctiliously  as  Fondie 
did,  the  Rector  of  Mersham — following  Sir  Lancelot's  lead — 
hailed  farmers  of  a  thousand  Mersham  acres  by  their  Christian 
names;  not,  it  must  be  admitted,  in  any  arbitrary  or  dogmatic 
way,  but  with  such  geniality  of  opulent  condescension  as  to 
cause  his  patronage  to  seem  (in  the  sight  of  those  to  whom  it  was 
directed)  like  overflowing  fellowship,  and  so  to  extend  its  en- 
croachments into  the  territory  of  goodwill.  To  those  admittedly 
below  him  the  Rector  behaved  with  an  affability  that  appeared 
contemptuous  of  all  the  artificial  barriers  of  class,  though  as 
the  social  space  between  himself  and  those  to  whom  he  spoke  nar- 


338  F  O  N  D  I  E 

rowed,  his  affability  contracted  In  proportion,  so  that  to  almost 
equals  and  brother  clerics  like  the  Rev.  Henry  Bellwood,  at 
whose  Christian  names  his  liberties  terminated,  his  manner  was 
less  of  expansion  than  of  abstracted  reserve,  and  his  geniality 
grew  vague  and  indeterminate,  like  the  summit  of  a  mist-en- 
veloped hill. 

When  the  new  Squire  came  to  view  his  inheritance  at  Mer- 
sham,  the  Rector  was  the  first  to  shake  him  and  his  daughters 
by  the  hand,  and  as  a  connection  of  the  late  Sir  Lancelot,  steeped 
in  the  Mersham  legend  and  tradition,  and  a  man  of  weight  and 
prominence  upon  the  estate,  the  new  Squire  welcomed  him  as 
a  valuable  ally,  confirming  all  those  authorities  and  prerogatives 
which,  in  the  interest  of  the  estate,  the  Rector  had  assumed; 
inviting  the  Rector  to  continue  to  watch  over  its  well-being, 
and  to  communicate  with  him  at  once  on  any  matter  threatening 
or  affecting  it.  This  the  Rector  did,  and  though  the  name  of 
Mr.  D'Alroy  was,  in  quotation,  no  substitute  (strictly  speaking) 
for  Sir  Lancelot,  the  Rector's  rich  voice  extracted  from  it  all 
the  virtue  and  nutriment  vocally  obtainable,  and  converted  the 
new  Squire — as  he  had  done  the  old — into  an  efficient  imple- 
ment of  his  own  authority.  Scarce  a  week  went  by  but  saw 
letters  pass  between  the  two,  and  Rumor — even  if  she  erred — 
had  ground  enough  to  go  on  in  saying  that  the  young  Squire 
would  make  the  Mersham  Rectory  his  chief  home  during  the 
years  he  was  to  spend  at  college. 

But  she  had  not  erred,  for  the  Rector's  voice  confirmed  her, 
assuming  a  tone  of  indulgent  uncleship  towards  the  coming 
guest,  without  suggesting  the  least  hint  of  any  pecuniary  basis 
to  the  arrangement — although  the  Rector's  three  maids  and 
two  menservants  and  most  of  the  parishioners  suspected  one. 
And  the  fact  that  the  Rector  selected  in  person  various  pieces 
of  furniture  at  the  great  hall  and  supervised  their  removal 
to  the  Rectory,  as  appurtenances  to  the  decoration  on  Mersham 
principles  of  a  bedroom  and  study  on  the  bathroom  floor  destined 
for  the  young  heir's  use,  served  to  show  that  Mersham  history — 


FONDIE  239 

SO  long  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation,  and  unspectaciilar — 
was  about  to  be  set  in  motion  once  again. 


VI 


THE  month  of  August  was  distinguished  by  three  impor- 
tant days.    In  the  pictorial  almanac  that  the  Hunmouth 
Oil  Mills  sent  to  Dod's  father  with  their  compliments 
each  New  Year  they  figured  as  follows: 

Aug.     5.     Death  of  General  Murgatroyd,  1873. 
Aug.  II.    OiLo  Cake  for  Cattle. 
Aug.  14.     The  Duke  of  Sax-Holstein-Schleiergeier 
married,  1821. 

But  these  facts  by  no  means  constituted  the  true  significance 
of  the  days ;  and  indeed,  in  the  same  almanac  for  the  year  before, 
General  Murgatroyd 's  death  was  flatly  contradicted  by  the 
Wallworth  Colliery  Disaster,  the  Duke  of  Sax-Holstein-Schlei- 
ergeier's  marriage  was  never  so  much  as  mentioned,  OiLO  Cake 
FOR  Cattle  was  commemorated  on  the  8th,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  calendar  appeared  to  be  similarly  revoked  and  unreliable. 
So  far  as  Whivvle  was  concerned,  August  5  might  have 
changed  places  with  any  other  date  in  the  year,  if  it  had  not 
been  Blanche's  birthday.  On  this  day  she  celebrated  her  seven- 
teenth— or  if  she  did  not  celebrate,  at  least  she  attained  it;  for 
in  truth  the  long-anticipated  day  gained  little  by  a  close  ac- 
quaintance, and  fulfilled  few  of  the  things  expected  of  such  an 
eventful  and  vaunted  anniversary.  Blanche  put  her  hair  up  in 
the  morning  to  gratify  the  full  importance  of  her  age,  but  she 
let  it  down  again  in  the  afternoon  because  it  caused  seventeen 
to  look  much  older  than  she  liked  to  see,  and  imparted  an  air 
of  propriety  too  suggestive  of  parochialism  and  reform  and  too 
reminiscent  of  the  Vicar  of  Merensea's  superior  daughters,  with 


240  FOND  IE 

whom  (first  shutting  up  all  her  teeth  in  a  hurry,  and  guarding 
them  from  observation  with  a  mouth  unmistakably  belligerent) 
Blanche  interchanged  bows  of  mutual  animosity  as  seldom  as 
possible;  having  had  the  Vicar  of  Merensea's  daughters  too 
frequently  set  before  her  at  home,  as  an  example  for  her  own 
behavior  to  copy,  to  be  in  much  love  with  the  originals.  Also, 
she  let  her  hair  down  again  because  her  father  had  been  tactless 
enough  to  approve  of  it  up,  saying  it  was  a  hopeful  and  sensible 
sign,  and  he  trusted,  from  this  momentous  day  forth,  she  would 
dedicate  her  best  endeavors  toward  serious  things.  Blanche 
had  published  the  ultimatum  of  a  birthday  party,  too,  to  com- 
memorate the  attainment  of  these  most  important  and  romantic 
"teens,"  but  as  the  day  drew  near,  and  she  cast  about  more 
urgently  in  her  mind  for  choice  of  guests,  she  realized,  with 
increasing  bitterness,  how  very  few  invitable  friends  she  had. 
There  seemed  only  Fondie  and  the  carrier's  daughter — and  even 
the  carrier's  daughter  was  now  semi-officially  engaged  to  the 
miller's  son  from  Thripton,  and  was  only  available  by  day- 
light— and  the  Vicar's  reproach  that  Blanche  had  willfully 
thrown  away  all  her  opportunities  and  forfeited  all  the  good 
friends  she  might  have  had  came  back  upon  his  daughter  on 
her  seventeenth  birthday  with  a  new  and  mortifying  significance. 
She  went  out  on  her  bicycle  in  the  afternoon  to  stimulate  the 
sense  of  new-found  emancipation  by  reckless  riding,  but  the 
essence  of  this  stimulant  proved  very  volatile.  She  met  nobody 
on  the  way,  and  there  seemed  nowhere  to  go  to,  and  her  own 
loneliness  depressed  her  dismally,  and  the  elusive  happiness  her 
soul  was  in  search  of  appeared  not  to  reside  within  cycle  reach 
of  Whivvle.  As  a  relief  to  her  feelings  she  called  on  Fondie 
with  one  of  the  two  half-crowns  that  had  constituted  her  father's 
not  unprompted  recognition  of  the  day,  and  said,  "Here  you 
are,  Fondie.  Take  this."  And  Fondie  had  taken  it  implicitly, 
as  he  would  have  taken  a  horse-pill  at  Blanche's  instigation. 
And  she  asked  him  what  day  it  was,  and  Fondie — calculating  on 
his  finger-ends  from  last  Sunday's  psalms — opined  it  must  be 


FONDIE  241 

fifth,  miss.  And  Blanche  said:  Of  course  she  knew  that,  silly! 
But  what  else  was  it  ?  Didn't  he  know  ?  It  was  her  birthday. 
She  was  seventeen. 

"I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  o'  day,  miss,"  Fondie  said 
in  a  low  voice,  that  would  have  been  fervent  had  he  only  pos- 
sessed courage.  He  did  not  express  the  wish  all  at  once,  for  a 
curious  thrill  had  seemed  to  pass  through  him  at  Blanche's  an- 
nouncement ;  nor  did  he  add,  as  his  heart  within  him  yearned  to 
do:  "There's  nobody  in  Whivvle  wishes  it  you  more  earnestly 
than  me,  miss,"  for  he  was  unsure  of  his  lips,  and  fingered  the 
half-crown  instead  (that  on  principle,  as  with  all  the  other 
coins  Blanche  brought  him,  he  never  put  out  of  sight  until  their 
donor  was  gone,  to  show  how  little  he  set  store  on  them,  and 
how  redeemable  they  were  if  Miss  Blanche  only  desired).  He 
fingered  the  half-crown  so  irresolutely  that  Blanche  exclaimed: 
"For  goodness'  sake  put  it  away,  or  I  shall  be  asking  for  it 
back  again.  Father  gave  me  two  this  morning.  He  wouldn't 
if  I  hadn't  pestered  him,  and  then  he  grumbled.  That's  the 
only  present  I  got.  Except  some  cards.  I  don't  want  cards. 
Who  does?     They're  sickening." 

Something  (blood,  it  seemed,  by  the  warmth  and  fluidity  of 
it)  rushed  to  Fondie's  lips  and  became  a  cough,  and  having 
returned  to  the  heart  that  sent  it,  came  back  a  second  time  and 
became  on  this  occasion  words  enveloped  in  a  burning  blush. 

*Td  like  ti  make  you  a  present  and  all.  Miss  Blanche,"  he 
said,  "nobbut  I  dared  ti  offer,  or  thought  you'd  accept  it." 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  Blanche's  splendidly  practical  voice  replied 
to  this  piece  of  supererogatory  sentimentalism.  "Of  course 
I'd  take  it  if  it  was  worth  taking.    What  sort  of  a  present?" 

Fondie,  still  enveloped  in  the  blood  of  his  own  audacity,  and 
buzzing  about  the  ears,  had  never  thought  of  the  gift  that  all 
his  affections  cried  out  for  an  occasion  to  bestow,  but,  urged 
on  by  his  blood  and  courage,  he  answered — almost  at  random: 

"Bicycle,  miss." 

By  the  way  Blanche's  blue  eyes  regarded  him  his  own  eyes 


242  F  O  N  D  I  E 

perceived  that  the  proffered  gift  was,  by  her,  more  doubted 
than  declined. 

She  said,  "Go  on!  You  don't  mean  it!"  when  Fondie's 
humble  voice  assured  her  that  he  did,  and  that  he  wished,  only, 
gift  was  worthier  of  her.  "What?  Do  you  mean  .  .  .  from 
now?    From  the  half-crown?    Or  from  the  beginning?" 

"From  the  beginning,  miss,"  Fondie  told  her.  "If  you'd  be 
indulgent  enough  to  accept  as  much  .  .  .  from  me." 

"You  wouldn't  tell  father?" 

"I  wouldn't  tell  anybody.  Miss  Blanche,"  Fondie  pledged 
himself,  almost  precipitately. 

"Father'd  be  awfully  angry  if  he  knew.  He  said  I  ought 
never  to  have  got  it.  He  only  gave  me  the  five  shillings  today 
because  I  made  out  they  were  for  you.  How  much  have  I 
paid?" 

"If  you  don't  mind  waiting  a  minute  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you,  miss." 
Fondie  went  to  the  little  wooden  box,  that  reliquary  of  Blanche's 
precious  coinage,  and,  pouring  its  inconsiderable  particles  into 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  transferred  them  thence  on  to  the  bench 
for  better  calculation,  Blanche  curiously  watching.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  you've  kept  them  there  all  this  time?"  Fondie 
answered,  "Yes,  miss."  Blanche  declared,  "You  are  a  great 
silly!  I  wish  I'd  known.  What  was  the  use  of  me  bothering 
to  pay  you  if  you  didn't  want  paying!"  Fondie  commented, 
"Why,  not  a  deal  of  use,  miss.  I'd  as  lieve  you  hadn't.  I'd 
a  deal  liever."  The  value  of  her  payments,  Fondle  found,  to- 
taled exactly  fourteen  shillings  exclusive  of  the  half-crown. 
Sixteen  shillings  and  sixpence  all  told.  It  was  a  large  sum  to 
have  paid  out  of  her  slender  purse,  and  even  so  it  left  a  large 
sum  still  to  pay.  Her  father  had  been  right.  Bicycles  were 
costly  things  to  buy.  She  said:  "I  oughtn't  to.  Father 
wouldn't  like  me.  I  won*t  take  it.  It  wouldn't  be  right.  Look 
here  ...  if  you  like  you  shall  let  me  have  the  half-crown 
back."  Fondie,  bowing  to  her  desire,  gave  back  the  coin  de- 
manded with  the -assurance  that  Miss  Blanche  was  welcome 


FOND  IE  J43 

to  all  the  rest,  and  that  his  gift  had  been  sincerely  offered. 
*'And  look  here  .  .  ."  Blanche  went  on,  "If  you'll  promise 
not  to  let  father  know,  you  shall  let  me  off  paying  the  rest,  If 
you  like."  To  this  compact  Fondle  subscribed,  and  was  put- 
ting the  attenuated  silver  pieces  back  again  into  the  box  when 
Blanche  inquired  what  he  meant  to  do  with  them.  He  con- 
fessed that  he  scarcely  knew.     He  had  not  made  up  his  mind. 

"Shall  you  keep  them  in  that  box?" 

"Very  like  I  shall,  miss." 

*'How  long  for?" 

**Maybe  a  longish  while,  miss." 

"Shan't  you  spend  them?" 

"Very  like  I  shan't,  miss." 

"Why  ever  not?" 

Fondle  had  no  answer  to  this  last  inquiry  save  to  say  for  no 
particular  reason  that  he  knew  of. 

To  see  so  much  good  money,  torn  in  the  first  instance  from 
the  very  heart  strings  of  her  purse,  overcame  Blanche's  last 
qualms  of  objection.  She  said  "Look  here"  again.  If  Fondle 
really  wished  to  give  her  the  bicycle  and  didn't  really  want  to 
take  her  money  for  it  .  .  .  she  would  let  him.  But  she 
wouldn't  take  the  money  now.  Fondle  should  keep  it  for  her. 
And  then — if  ever  she  wanted  anything  particular — she  could 
come  and  ask  him  for  it.  How  much  did  he  say  there  was? 
Fourteen  shillings?  She  thought  he  had  said  sixteen.  "Six- 
teen and  sixpence,  with  half-crown,  miss,"  Fondle  explained. 
"I  gave  you  that  back,  if  you  remember."  Oh,  yes,  Blanche 
remembered.  And  now  that  the  bargain  was  completed,  and 
that  Fondle  thanked  her  for  it  as  humbly  as  he  had  done  when 
she  gave  him  her  order  for  the  bicycle,  Blanche  remembered, 
too,  to  thank  him  for  this  handsome  birthday  gift,  saying  he 
was  a  brick,  and  she  would  always  think  of  him  when  she  went 
out  riding  now.  Only  he  mustn't  tell  father,  or  let  anybody 
else  know.  And  would  he  just  look  to  the  brake  for  her  so 
long  as  she  was  there? 


244  F  O  N  D  I  E 

If  Fondie  had  but  done  what  his  uneasy  conscience  told  him 
was  due  to  the  young  gentleman;  what  the  young  gentleman 
had  a  right  to  expect  of  him — for  there  was  nobody  in  the 
workshop  at  this  moment  but  the  two  of  them !  The  workshop 
was  delectably  warm  beneath  the  beams  of  the  August  sun,  and 
filled  with  the  aromatic  odor  of  pine  shavings  and  gums  that 
the  young  gentleman  so  loved ;  and  bluebottles  that  both  Fondie 
and  the  young  gentleman  liked  to  listen  to  were  buzzing  about 
the  bull's-eye  window-panes  and  making  somnolent  music  like 
drowsy  contrabassists;  and  Blanche  had  on  her  blue  print  frock 
of  almost  the  color  of  the  sky  and  her  own  blue  eyes.  ...  If 
Fondie  had  but  seized  the  opportunity  presented,  then  he  might 
have  celebrated  Blanche's  birthday  in  a  manner  worthy  of 
himself,  and  of  the  young  gentleman's  faith  in  him,  and  of  the 
occasion. 

And,  but  for  the  bicycle,  he  might  have  done.  But  who,  of 
any  self-respect  or  proper  feeling,  would  lay  himself  open  to 
the  accusation  of  having  attempted  to  procure  one  of  Blanche's 
kisses  at  the  cost  of  a  second-hand  bicycle? 

So  Fondie  never  did,  and  when  the  young  gentleman — subse- 
quently learning  of  Blanche's  visit  and  the  true  significance  of 
the  day — inquired,  almost  eagerly,  "Did  you  .  .  .?"  Fondie 
could  only  answer  as  sadly  as  before,  Why  no  ...  he  didn't, 
sir. 

And  that  night,  despite  the  gloriousness  of  the  weather  and 
the  generosity  of  Fondie's  gift,  a  sense  of  dismal  disillusion- 
ment caused  Blanche  to  shed  tears  upon  her  pillow  (not  more 
than  six,  all  told)  at  the  futility  of  her  seventeen  years  that 
brought  her  nothing  beyond  what  all  her  other  years  had 
brought;  and  at  the  mockery  of  life  that  led  one  on  and  on  with 
specious  promises  never  to  be  fulfilled. 

To  think,  on  this  day  of  days,  she  had  been  reduced  to  Fon- 
die and  the  wheelwright's  yard  for  sole  commemoration  of  the 
anniversary  her  heart  and  hopes  had  decorated  with  such  festal 
longings  and  desires.     Almost  she  had  the  resolution  to  make 


F  O  N  D  I  E  «4S 

herself  sickening,  as  her  father  wished,  and  put  her  hair  severely 
up,  and  purchase  peace  of  soul  at  any  price,  and  serve  herself 
and  everybody  out.  But  sleep  overtook  her  before  this  fateful 
vow  was  sealed,  and  on  the  morrow  she  awoke  with  restored 
hopes  and  repaired  self-confidence,  and  her  blue  eyes  scanned 
the  horizon  as  eagerly  for  the  dancing  joy-ships  on  the  blue 
waters  of  untroubled  life  as  they  had  done  the  day  (and  many 
days)   before. 


VII 


ON  the  second  of  these  three  eventful  days  the  young 
squire  came  to  Mersham.  A  horse-box  swung  at  the 
end  of  his  train,  and  by  nightfall  the  number  of 
horses  in  the  rectory  stable  had  increased  to  two.  To  all  with 
any  power  of  prediction  it  seemed  at  last  as  though  the  Mer- 
sham fortunes  were  on  the  mend.  Some  among  the  optimists 
boldly  declared  that  the  festive  draught  ale  and  roast  beef 
were  not  more  than  a  twelvemonth  off,  and  that  there  would 
be  bonfires  and  rejoicings  at  the  great  hall  before  another  year 
had  passed. 

For  why — if  not  for  some  good  purpose  such  as  this — had 
the  j^oung  squire  come  to  Mersham?  Through  all  the  crippled 
and  disjected  members  of  the  once  mighty  estate  a  thrill  of 
hope  and  expectation  ran  that  culminated  (on  the  anniversary 
of  the  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Sax-Holstein-Schleiergeier)  in 
the  Mersham  Flower  Show. 

Since  Sir  Lancelot's  death  no  Flower  Show  at  Mersham  had 
been  held.  In  the  first  instance  it  had  been  discontinued  out 
of  nominal  respect  to  its  patron's  memory,  but  deeper  reasons 
than  respect  had  militated  against  its  resumption.  For,  as  the 
august  baronet  could  tolerate  no  form  of  enterprise  upon  his 
own  estate  that  aspired  to  the  least  independence,  and  would 
not  prostrate  itself  upon  his  bounty,  the  Mersham  Show  only 


246  FONDIE 

attained  his  patronage  by  making  Itself  parasitic  to  his  purse — 
a  thing,  truth  to  tell,  it  was  very  ready  to  do — and  this  once 
famous  fixture  became  to  all  intents  and  purposes  but  another 
of  the  many  affluents  of  the  baronet's  style.  Sir  Lancelot's 
liberality  furnished  its  marquees,  and  Sir  Lancelot's  colors 
fluttered  proudly  over  each;  his  purse  supplied  by  far  the 
greater  number  of  Its  cups  and  prizes,  as  well  as  the  military 
band  that  blew  music  In  the  park;  and  his  gardeners,  in  one 
large  tent  that  stood  proudly  apart  from  the  vulgar  atmosphere 
of  competition,  staged  groupings  of  floral  and  vegetable  Mers- 
ham  splendors  calculated  to  strike  admiring  interjections  from 
every  beholder.  All  day  long,  while  the  band  played  and  the 
flags  fluttered  and  the  people  moved  about  the  grounds  and 
gardens,  the  ale-taps  in  the  Mersham  cellars  splashed  unceasing, 
and  though  no  inebriety  was  tolerated  upon  Sir  Lancelot's 
estate — save  only  and  except  among  his  own  guests — and  any 
instance  of  intemperance  on  the  Show  day  was  hid  at  once  by 
its  friends  and  well-wishers  behind  the  trees,  there  was  as 
crooked  driving  homeward  on  this  night  as  on  any  night  in 
the  year,  and  drink  was  not  to  be  had  cheaper,  even  on  Election 
Day,  by  those  who  knew  the  way  In  which  this  commodity 
was  to  be  obtained. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  day  of  resurrection  of  the  Mersham 
Show,  and  all  the  signs  and  wonders  that  attended  it.  There 
had  been  a  thunder-shower  in  the  morning.  The  great  black 
evil-looking  cloud  lifting  slowly  from  the  river,  and  draw- 
ing the  blackness  of  a  thousand  Hunmouth  smokestacks 
with  it,  thrust  Its  forbidding  silhouette  against  the  sun,  like 
the  great  dome  of  a  cathedral,  and  darkened  the  kitchen  of 
Dod's  father's  house  till  all  the  faces  in  It  were  as  blurred 
as  blots  in  a  copybook,  and  the  polished  fender  shone  chill  as 
ice. 

But  by  midday  our  fears  and  the  great  black  cloud  were 
lifted.  The  cloud  passed  over  to  the  sea,  trailing  a  rugged 
gray  Paisley  shawl  of  vapor  behind  It,  fringed  with  rain,  and 


F  O  N  D  I  E  247 

the  western  wall  of  blue  sky  rose  up  again,  course  by  course; 
and  the  sun,  kindling  a  myriad  lenses  of  rain,  burned  August 
hot. 

Dinner  that  day — for  all  but  Dod's  father — ^was  a  mockery. 
Dod's  father,  still  unshaved,  in  his  weekday  clothes — or  the 
trousers  pertaining  to  them,  for  his  coat  and  waistcoat  hung 
over  the  kitchen  door — ate  as  though  the  IVIersham  Show  were 
a  whole  fortnight  off,  and  discoursed  all  the  while  on  crops 
and  Mersham  Shows  of  thirty  years  before,  as  though  thirty 
years  ago  were  of  more  consequence  than  now.  Not  that  any- 
body listened  to  him  but  me — who  had  to,  being  a  guest,  and 
seated  directly  opposite  to  his  eye.  For  us  the  joint  of  beef  and 
steamed  potatoes  and  all  the  plates  and  dishes  to  be  washed 
up  were  but  obstructions  of  desire,  like  the  hateful  crowd  that 
blocks  the  inlet  to  a  circus.  We  watched  the  blue  sky  through 
the  kitchen  window  with  every  mouthful  we  ate,  for  fear  delay 
might  bring  another  thunder-cloud  with  It,  until  the  window 
grew  as  black  to  our  apprehensive  vision  as  any  thunder-cloud 
could  be,  and  Dod  had  to  run  to  the  open  door  with  his  knife 
and  fork  In  hand  and  stick  the  prongs  of  the  fork  Into  the  sky, 
to  make  sure  that  the  black  was  black  after  all,  and  no  rain 
threatened. 

But  at  last  when  It  seemed  that  all  we  could  now  hope  to  do 
was  to  meet  the  people  coming  home,  we  tore  ourselves  free  of 
the  farmstead  and  came  upon  the  road  in  Dod's  father's  spring- 
cart:  Dod's  father  driving,  with  Dod's  mother  beside  him; 
and  Dod  and  myself  behind,  with  Dod's  sister  between  us, 
holding  on  her  Anniversary  hat.  Coming,  as  the  Show  did, 
In  the  lull  before  harvest,  with  the  corn  still  a  full  fortnight 
off  the  reaper  (though  ripening  fast)  and  little  doing  on  the 
-land,  all  the  world  seemed  making  for  Mersham  this  day.  On 
the  road  In  front  of  us,  and  on  the  road  behind  us,  carts  like 
our  own  and  just  as  crowded — ^waving  whips  and  hands  and 
kerchiefs  of  recognition — jogged  along  in  each  other's  dust  that 
rose  Into  the  air  charged  with  the  humid  odor  of  recent  rain 


248  F  O  N  D  I  E 

and  drifted  over  the  hedgerows,  where,  on  the  more  sheltered 
branches,  raindrops  like  diamonds  hung.  Strings  of  farm- 
lads  on  bicycles  with  cabbage-shaped  nosegays  tied  to  the 
handle-bars  overtook  us,  singing;  children,  perched  three  and 
four  together  on  cottage  gates,  cheered  us  as  if  we  had  been 
the  king;  scores  of  people  trudged  industriously  upon  the  road. 
But  the  scene  of  animation  along  the  road  was  nothing  to 
that  which  met  us  in  the  park  itself,  where  as  many  carts — or 
more — ^were  drawn  up  as  incommode  the  precincts  of  the  mar- 
ket-place in  Hunmouth  on  market  days,  whilst  tethered  horses 
tossed  nosebags  and  munched  tares  beneath  the  trees,  or,  fly- 
tormented,  shook  their  harness  with  a  startling  sound  of  swords 
and  soldiery.  Great  gaunt  wagonettes,  swathed  in  eighteen 
miles  of  Holderness  dust,  had  rolled  all  the  way  from  Hun- 
mouth itself,  drawn  hither  by  the  historic  event,  and  by  the 
proclamation  that  Mersham  Hall — after  being  so  long  defended 
from  the  scrutiny  of  the  curious — was  to  be  thrown  open  to 
the  public  eye  once  more  on  this  one  day  (at  the  instigation  of 
the  Rector)  in  aid  of  the  Mersham  Church  fund,  at  a  shilling  a 
head.  All  over  the  cattle-cropped  and  sunburnt  sward,  bicycles, 
stacked  and  prostrate,  glittered  in  the  sun,  and  from  every 
quarter  of  the  park  the  stream  of  visitors  converged  upon  the 
tent,  whose  rain-soaked  canvas,  still  not  altogether  dry,  ma- 
jestically swayed  and  bellied  in  the  breeze. 


vni 


WE  drew  up  our  cart  in  line  with  many  more,  and 
tethered  the  mare  beneath  an  oak  tree  with  a  sack 
of  fresh-mown  tares  at  her  nose-end. 
Blanche  was  there,  in  a  pale  lavender  print  frock  and  a  large 
straw  hat  trimmed  with  Shasta  daisies  and  blue  cornflowers, 
spinning  over  her  shoulder  w^ith  a  white-cotton-gloved  hand  a 
cream  sunshade    (that  she  had  prodded   the  pony  with  upon 


FOND  IE  249 

the  road)  and  flashing  her  big  smile  to  all  sides  of  her  and 
behind  her  father's  back.  And  the  Bullocky  was  there — ^who 
had  driven  them  In  the  vicarage  buggy  and  tethered  the  pony 
beneath  the  trees — In  a  state  of  rebellion  against  his  sober 
Sunday  clothes,  to  which,  much  against  his  father's  wishes,  he 
had  Imparted  an  air  of  reckless  horsemanship  and  Independence 
by  means  of  a  pair  of  tan  leggings.  And  Deacon  Smeddy  was 
there  along  with  the  Psalmist  In  the  parson's  hat  he  had  worn 
at  twenty  successive  Whiwle  Anniversaries  and  Heaven  knows 
how  many  others  and  Sabbath  days  beside. 

Even  Bless  Allcot,  undeterred  by  the  price  of  admission,  was 
there  with  his  daughter,  and  the  landlord  of  the  White  Cow, 
and  most  of  the  licensed  victualers  from  miles  around,  with 
their  wives  and  families  and  chief  customers.  And  Fondie*s 
aunt  was  there  In  black  gloves  with  Fondle's  sister,  driven  over 
by  the  saddler  from  Osterwick,  who  came  to  cross  his  legs  in 
the  wheelwright's  kitchen  one  Sunday  in  every  four,  which,  by 
those  who  understand  such  matters,  was  said  to  be  a  sign  of 
courtship  and  indicated  that  within  a  decade  he  would  ask 
for  the  wheelwright's  daughter's  hand.  And  the  wheelwright 
himself — Infected  by  the  prevalent  excitement — had  seemed  at 
one  moment  to  be  as  near  to  the  brink  of  persuasion  as  any 
mortal  could  stand  without  falling  over,  and  only  his  strength 
of  obstinacy  saved  him  at  the  last  instant  when  the  saddler's 
cart  stood  creaking  at  the  door,  saying:  "Gan  tl  Flower  Show? 
Not  me!  Flower  Shows  Is  nobbut  for  women  and  fond  folk. 
I'se  ower  mich  wark  tl  do."  And  the  saddler's  cart  drove  off 
unadorned  by  the  wheelwright's  decorative  beard.  Nor  was 
Fondle  there,  which  the  wheelwright  betrayed  more  than  a 
disposition  to  resent,  declaring  Show  was  for  syke  fond  chaps 
as  him.  What  better  would  he  be  at  yam?  And  deriving 
small  satisfaction  from  Fondle's  modest  admission:  "Why,  I 
doubt  not  a  deal,  father."  But  from  the  first  Fondle  had 
never  wavered  in  his  Intention,  as  the  wheelwright  had  done, 
and  only  that  morning  he  had  doubted  to  Blanche — ^when  she 


2SO  F  O  N  D  I  E 

called  to  ask  if  he  could  accommodate  her  with  a  small  allow- 
ance from  the  bicycle-box  for  eventualities  at  Mersham — that 
very  like  he  would  not  be  at  Show  (miss).  And  when  Blanche 
asked,  "Why  in  the  world  not?"  Fondle  had  answered  (shame- 
facedly, it  is  true,  for  he  knew  no  honest  reason  could  explain 
why  any  honest  man  should  fail  to  go  to  Mersham  on  a  day 
like  this,  when — as  Blanche  said — "Nobody's  stopping  you"), 
"Why  .  .  .  I'se  jealous  for  several  reasons,  miss."  But  when 
Blanche  asked  him  what  they  were  he  could  only  blush  deeper 
than  already  he  had  done  and  say  one  of  them  was  he  had 
promised  to  meet  somebody  this  afternoon.  .  .  . 

"And  I  know  who  it  is,"  Blanche  challenged  him  at  once. 
"And  I  know  where  you're  going,  both  of  you.  You're  going 
to  church."  For  she  had  accosted  the  young  gentleman  from 
the  aud  hoose  but  the  day  before  with  the  same  queries — half 
thinking  that  the  young  gentleman,  if  he  could  be  so  persuaded, 
might  come  in  very  handy  for  parade  purposes  at  the  Mersham 
Show,  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole  and  a  stick  in  his  gloved 
hand — but  the  young  gentleman  had  proved  as  unresponsive 
as  Fondie,  blushing  even  a  deeper  color  for  no  apparent  reason, 
and  seeming  as  shy  of  Mersham  and  all  mention  of  it  as  a  dog 
is  of  the  boot  that  has  just  kicked  him.  The  fact  that  the 
young  Squire  was  to  be  present  and  the  hall  was  to  be  thrown 
open  to  the  public  only  sustained  his  color  without  exciting  his 
interest  or  whetting  his  curiosity,  and,  as  Blanche  herself  told 
him,  she  couldn't  reckon  him  up.  "You've  been  to  Mersham 
lots  of  times  when  it's  sickening  and  there's  nothing  to  do. 
And  now,  just  when  there's  something  to  go  for,  you  stop 
away.  Why?"  To  which  the  young  gentleman  had  no  better 
answer  than  Fondle.  She  expressed  her  own  intention  of  being 
there  at  all  costs.  "Father's  going.  Isn't  it  awful!  But  I 
aren't  coming  back  with  him.  He  needn't  think  it.  I  don't 
know  who  I  shall  come  back  with,  yet.  I  haven't  made  up  my 
mind.  There'll  be  lots  of  them  there."  She  confided  her  eager- 
ness to  see  the  young  Squire.     She  intended  to  see  him  at  all 


FONDIE  2SI 

cost.  "He  was  riding  over  hurdles  in  the  park  this  morning. 
They  say  he's  ever  so  good-looking." 

As  soon  as  Dod's  father  had  paid  for  our  admission  through 
the  clicking  turnstile  where  the  two  policemen  stood  as  though 
waiting  for  somebody,  Dod  said  to  me,  "Come  on.  Let's  leave 
'em!" — and  when  asked  why,  answered  that  (otherwise)  we 
should  have  to  take  care  of  "oor  lass"  while  his  mother  and 
father  went  over  the  Hall,  which  his  mother  had  set  her  mind 
on  doing. 

The  show  tent — flapping  its  indolent  canvas  wings  in  the  air 
like  a  fat  Michaelmas  goose — ^was  pitched  on  the  green  sward 
in  the  broad  slope  of  park  facing  the  main  front  of  the  great 
red  hall  that  glowed  with  the  ardor  of  a  brick-kiln  in  the  fierce 
sun.  To  one  side,  under  the  sleek  and  sheltering  beeches  of 
the  avenue,  stood  a  smaller  tent  for  refreshments,  furnished  by 
the  caterer  from  Hunmouth,  where  cups  and  saucers  rattled 
all  the  afternoon  and  three  moist-faced  women  at  the  back 
with  corrugated  forearms  washed  crockery  recklessly  and  with- 
out cessation  in  as  many  pails.  At  the  side  of  the  tent,  too,  a 
man  in  shirt-sleeves  sliced  bread  with  a  guillotine  and  spread 
mustard  over  ham  sandwiches  by  means  of  a  broad  knife  with 
amazing  dexterity  and  speed,  passing  the  sandwiches  in  piles, 
when  finished,  to  a  naked  arm  that  issued  snakelike  from  a  hole 
in  the  tent.  At  the  other  side  of  the  hole  in  the  tent  the  sand- 
wiches were  retailed  at  twopence  apiece,  which  Dod  considered 
an  exorbitant  price — asking:  Who  wanted  ham  sandwiches 
smeared  wi'  mustard  fit  ti  bring  tears  ti  your  eyes?  One  could 
have  ham  sandwiches  at  home,  wi'oot  mustard ! — and  bade  me 
buy  two  sticks  of  Hunmouth  rock  instead,  which  had  the  ad- 
vantage that  one  could  suck  them  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time 
and  put  them  back  again  in  the  breast  pocket,  like  a  flute.  But 
though  the  refreshment  tent  appeared  to  do  a  roaring  trade 
and  people  were  perpetually  tripping  over  the  tent  pegs  as  they 
went  In  or  went  out  (some  of  them  backwards),  so  that  Dod 
and  I  took  up  a  point  of  vantage  for  awhile  to  watch  them  as 
17 


2S2  F  O  N  D  I  E 

we  tongued  our  flutes,  many  visitors  had  come  furnished  with 
their  own  comestibles,  and  as  the  afternoon  advanced  there 
were  few  trees  in  the  vicinity  of  the  show  that  did  not  lend 
shelter  to  picnic  parties  on  the  grass,  engulfed  in  the  blackness 
of  their  shadow.  Between  the  big  marquee  and  the  hall,  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  sun,  the  military  band  from  Merensea 
made  the  biggest  circle  possible  out  of  its  twenty  players  and 
blew  martial  music  all  the  afternoon,  while  the  crowd  alter- 
nated between  the  sunlight  and  the  tropic  dimness  of  the  show 
tent,  treading  on  one  another's  heels  in  slow  progression  round 
the  tables  of  familiar  exhibits;  the  roses  and  sweet-peas,  the 
stocks  and  marigolds,  the  cucumbers  and  carrots,  and  fat  and 
fleshy  marrows;  spelling  out  the  names  of  the  prize-winners 
and  questioning  the  verdict  of  the  judges.  All  the  blinds  that 
had  darkened  the  windows  these  many  years  were  raised  on 
this  historic  afternoon,  and  the  great  house  under  the  Rector's 
supervision  did  its  best  to  express  occupancy  and  to  look  upon 
the  doings  in  the  park  with  an  intelligent  and  gracious  interest, 
as  though  its  dignity  had  never  known  reverse.  On  the  spa- 
cious grassy  terrace  beyond  the  moat  comfortable  garden  chairs 
were  spread,  with  rugs  and  cushions  and  wicker  tables,  and 
here  the  Rector  and  his  particular  party  displayed  themselves, 
going  in  and  out  of  the  tall  French  windows  and  strolling 
down  to  the  marble  balustrades  at  the  terrace  foot,  whose 
white  statuary  was  reflected  head  downward  in  the  stagnant 
waters  of  the  moat  below.  Towards  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon, the  assembled  company  in  the  park  being  large  enough 
to  justify  the  condescension,  the  Rectorial  party  made  a  formal 
procession  through  the  show-ground  for  the  second  time — hav- 
ing been  round  once  already,  as  we  subsequently  learned,  before 
our  arrival.  They  crossed  the  moat  by  the  foot-bridge  from 
the  terrace,  marked  "Strictly  Private,"  and  it  was  plain  to 
see  which  was  the  young  Squire  at  once,  for  the  Rector  had 
him  in  custody  by  the  arm,  and  only  took  away  his  hand  to 
lay  it  on  his  shoulder  when  he  stopped  to  Christian-name  some 


FOND  IE  2SJ 

Mersham  tenant  and  exchange  words  with  him  in  a  voice  as 
if  the  tenant  had  been  the  whole  park's  length  away.  Dod  and 
I  were  close  to  the  foot-bridge  when  they  passed  over.  The 
Rector  was  attired  in  riding-breeches  with  a  gray  hat,  and 
smoked  a  strong  cigar;  the  young  Squire — ^whom  everybody 
stopped  to  look  at,  and  turned  to  watch  when  the  party  had 
passed  by — was  dressed  in  light  flannels,  with  a  straw  hat 
slightly  tilted,  which  he  raised  from  time  to  time  at  the  Rector's 
instigation  when  the  tenantry  and  others  paid  respect.  He  was 
tall  and  slim  and  young  and  smooth-cheeked,  and  much  sun- 
burnt, as  if  his  skin  had  been  warmed  by  a  hotter  sun  than 
ours ;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  well  as  I  was  at  that  time  capable 
of  judging  my  own  sex  in  such  matters,  that  he  was  handsome 
— though  I  think  I  liked  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  face  better. 

Blanche  knew  Dod  by  sight  and  name,  and  more  than  once 
during  the  course  of  the  afternoon  she  brought  us  to  a  standstill 
with  her  smile,  asking  Dod  if  he  had  seen  such  a  one  or  such 
another,  or  whereabouts  her  father  was — to  which  latter,  when 
Dod  told  her,  she  returned,  as  though  rebuking  his  intelligence, 
"I  aren't  looking  for  him,  silly!  I  don't  want  him.  You 
needn't  point."  Later  in  the  afternoon,  towards  tea-time,  she 
commissioned  Dod  to  let  her  father  know  she  would  be  driving 
home  with  Fondie  Bassiemoor.  Dod  said,  thoughtlessly  enough, 
"Fondie  Bassiemoor  isn't  here!"  as  if  he  were  retailing  news, 
and  Blanche  retorted,  "What  if  he  isn't!  I  don't  care.  You'll 
tell  father,  won't  you,"  and  Dod  said  he  would,  and  Dod  did, 
for  I  was  with  him  at  the  time,  and  the  Vicar  stroked  his  beard 
and  looked  about  the  park  as  though  the  message  had  disturbed 
all  his  calculations,  asking,  "Where  is  my  daughter?"  Dod 
might  have  answered,  "Back-side  o'  yon  tent,  waiting  while 
I  tell  her  you've  gone,"  but  he  said  he  didn't  know,  instead, 
an,d  the  Vicar,  after  debating  whether  to  go  or  stay  (for  the 
vicarage  pony  stood  all  yoked  beneath  the  trees  at  the  time, 
with  the  Bullocky  by,  and  the  Vicar  was  waiting  watch  in  hand 
for  his  daughter's  appearance  when  Dod  spoke  to  him),  pro- 


2S4  F  O  N  D  I  E 

nounced  at  length  in  favor  of  the  former,  probably  decided 
by  the  sight  of  the  refreshment  tent  and  the  calculation  of 
three  teas;  and  drove  home  with  the  Bullocky — who  reappeared 
later  in  the  evening,  having  run  all  the  way  back  from  Whivvle 
— leaving  the  message  that  Blanche  was  to  be  home  by  eight 
o'clock,  which  Blanche  (first  asking,  "Has  he  gone?"  "Are 
you  sure?"  and  "What  did  he  say?"  when  Dod  went  back 
to  her)  declared  both  sickening  and  impossible. 

It  was  some  time  after  we  had  witnessed  the  Rectorial  party 
pass  out  in  formal  procession  over  the  private  foot-bridge  to 
the  park  that  Blanche  detached  her  gala  smile  from  the  company 
of  an  unknown  cavalier  with  a  marigold  in  his  buttonhole  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  bandstand  and  came  up  to  Dod  to  ask  if 
he  had  seen  him.  Dod  answered,  "Aye!  He  was  talkin* 
ti  aud  Smeddy  a  while  back,  i'  tent,"  and  Blanche  exclaimed 
disgustedly,  "Oh,  shut  up!  I  don't  mean  himT  and  explained 
that  her  inquiry  had  reference  to  the  young  Squire.  She  had 
barely  asked  the  question,  and  Dod  was  still  engaged  in  answer- 
ing, when  all  at  once  we  saw  the  Rectorial  party  return, 
strolling  through  the  fringe  of  spectators  round  the  bandstand. 
I  was  the  first  to  see  them,  and  I  wish  now  I  had  announced 
the  fact  to  Blanche  myself.  But  a  sense  of  diffidence — for 
which  I  found  it  difficult  to  account — caused  me  to  nudge 
Dod's  elbow  instead,  and  it  was  Dod  who,  without  acknowl- 
edging any  indebtedness  to  my  vigilance,  but  appropriating  the 
discovery  as  his  own,  stuck  out  his  forefinger  and  exclaimed, 
"Yon's  them,  see  ye!" 

Blanche  said,  "It  isntT — but  the  negative  was  by  way  of 
acknowledgment  only,  and  involved  no  denial  of  the  fact,  for 
she  altered  her  position  so  as  to  command  a  good  view  of  the 
party  when  they  came  nearer,  and  we  all  grew  very  still.  The 
young  Squire,  who  had  not  so  much  as  noticed  us  when  we  went 
by  on  the  first  occasion,  looked  now  with  marked  attention — 
as  if  he  almost  remembered  our  faces — and  it  may  be  he  had 
observed  us  better,  after  all,  than  we  thought.     Blanche,  tap- 


FONDIE  25S 

ping  her  tan  shoes  with  the  ferrule  of  her  sunshade,  stood  with 
her  profile  to  the  approaching  party  until  they  were  so  close 
that  we  could  Jiear  the  Rector's  conversation  even  above  the 
band,  when  she  turned  and  flashed  her  smile  broadside  into  the 
company.  The  Rector — I  do  not  know  why,  for  he  was  looking 
in  our  direction  till  Blanche  turned — chose  that  precise  moment 
to  address  a  remark  to  his  wife,  who  walked  behind  him  (re- 
taining one  hand  upon  the  young  Squire's  shoulders  as  though  to 
prevent  any  attempt  on  his  part  at  escape  in  the  meanwhile). 
The  young  Squire,  without  turning,  kept  his  eye  on  us — though 
the  Rector's  hand  seemed  rather  to  invite  his  attention  else- 
where— and  the  three  of  us  kept  our  eyes  on  him.  I  was  ready 
to  raise  my  hat  if  Dod  did — for  other  people  had  raised  theirs — 
and  of  course  it  was  his  park,  and  a  very  large  one;  almost 
Incredibly  large  to  be  owned  by  one  so  young.  But  Dod  didn't, 
and  I  didn't.  All  I  did  was  to  drop  my  eyes  and  raise  them 
politely  again.  Blanche,  who  had  faced  the  party  with  her 
full  smile  and  the  most  unblinking  blue  eyes — that  seemed  to 
say,  as  plainly  as  her  own  lips,  they  didn't  care,  and  weren't 
frightened — suddenly  bit  her  underllp  and  turned  upon  Dod, 
telling  him  (to  my  surprise)  to  shut  up.  **You  are  a  silly 
fool,  Dod!"  though  Dod,  whose  mouth  was  open  like  the  lid 
of  a  condensed-milk  tin,  had  never  said  a  word.  As  soon  as 
the  party  had  passed  by  Dod  said,  "Come  on !"  but  Blanche  re- 
sponded, "Wait  a  bit.  Let's  watch  where  they  go  to!"  and 
Dod  told  her,  "They'll  gan  over  yon  bridge  again" — ^which 
they  did.  The  young  Squire  stood  aside  most  politely  for  the 
Rector's  wife  and  all  the  others  to  pass,  and  even  prevailed  on 
the  Rector  to  take  precedence  of  him  across  the  moat  (though 
we  saw,  by  the  movement  of  the  Rector's  arm,  this  special  act 
of  courtesy  did  not  pass  undisputed),  turning  round,  as  soon 
as  the  Rector  passed  in  front  of  him  to  take  a  last  look  of  the 
band  playing  in  the  broad  avenue.  Dod  asked,  "Who's  he 
waving  ti?" — and  my  own  impression  had  been  that  the  young 
squire  certainly  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  to  somebody,  but  I 


256  F  O  N  D  I  E 

was  distracted  by  something  fluttering  In  my  eye  at  the  moment, 
that  turned  out  to  be  Blanche's  scented  handkerchief.  I  can 
recall  the  scent  of  it  to  this  day.  Blanche  exclaimed :  "Go  on ! 
He  isn't  waving  to  anybody!  You  are  a  silly,  Dod.  Let's 
watch  if  he  does  it  again!"  And  we  watched  the  party  cross 
the  terrace  to  where  tea  had  been  laid  out  for  them  upon 
the  tables,  but  he  did  not  look  round  again,  for  the  Rector 
(defrauded  of  his  company  across  the  bridge)  had  him  by  the 
sleeve  once  more,  and  Blanche  put  back  her  scented  handker- 
chief into  her  belt,  inviting  us  to  "Set  us  as  far  as  tent. 
There's  somebody  waiting  of  me  over  there  I  don't  want  to 
speak  to." 

It  was  the  cavalier  with  the  marigold  in  his  buttonhole,  who 
had  been  standing  all  this  time  where  Blanche  had  left  him, 
in  the  melancholy  posture  of  a  blasted  oak,  professing  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  band. 


IX 


WHILE  the  band  played,  making  the  hot  air  quiver 
with  brassy  music  and  the  palpitations  of  the  big 
drum,  the  crowd — radiating  from  the  stifled  show 
tent — overspread  the  park  and  sought  interest  in  all  directions. 
Some — chiefly  the  wagonette  parties  from  Hunmouth — choos- 
ing the  deepest  shadow  of  the  trees,  regaled  themselves  on 
hampers  of  bottled  beer,  or  played  cards  on  all  fours  or  pitch 
and  toss  on  their  haunches.  Sweetheart?  dallied  beneath  the 
favoring  twilight  of  the  Mersham  trees  and  strolled  with 
linked  arms,  languid  or  laughterful,  about  the  more  umbrageous 
alleys  of  the  park.  Others,  again,  paid  pilgrimages  to  the 
Mersham  Church  and  stared  through  the  railings  at  Sir  Lance- 
lot's mausoleum,  all  in  spotless  white  marble,  like  a  lavatory. 
The  church  being  open,  and  the  sexton's  wife  piously  engaged 
in  knitting  the  gray  feet  of  the  sexton's  stockings  within  the 


FOND  IE  2S7 

porch — a  work  she  was  prepared  to  discontinue  at  any  moment 
for  the  acknowledgment  of  an  honorarium — the  public  pene- 
trated into  the  sacred  edifice,  where  they  moved  slowly  from 
one  Mersham  memorial  to  another,  wrapped  in  the  subdued 
murmur  of  their  own  voices  that  clung  to  them  persistently 
like  the  flies  about  the  flinching  cattle  in  the  sunlit  park ;  staring 
admiration  and  wonderment  at  the  Mersham  pew  with  its  carved 
oak  proscenium  and  heraldic  canopy,  its  chairs,  table,  stove, 
hassocks,  and  brass-headed  nails;  or  viewing  their  own  faces 
grotesquely  reflected  in  the  burnished  orb  of  the  brass  lectern 
(Sir  Lancelot's  gift  to  the  church)  on  which  the  vicious  and 
raptorial  eagle  perched,  supporting  the  gilt-edged  Bible  on  its 
belligerent  wings.  All  the  afternoon,  too,  between  the  hours 
of  three  and  five,  the  public  passed  at  a  respectful  funeral  pace 
through  such  internal  portions  of  the  great  Hall  as  (under  the 
Rector's  direction)  had  been  prepared  for  them;  being  admitted 
by  the  north  door  and  ejected  from  one  still  smaller  in  the 
servants*  wing,  a  score  at  a  time. 

Two  hundred  and  thirty-seVen  paying  guests  (including 
Dod's  father  and  mother)  passed  through  the  hall  during  the 
course  of  the  afternoon. 

At  five  o'clock  the  lock  in  the  door  of  the  servants*  wing 
passed  its  scornful  comment  upon  the  departing  visitors  for 
the  last  time,  and  almost  simultaneously  the  great  Mersham 
bell  tolled  from  its  turret  in  announcement  of  the  fact. 

Attendance  in  the  show  tent  waned.  The  wilting  roses  and 
the  flaccid-cheeked  and  sickening  begonias  lost  their  hold  upon 
attention.  Gaps  grew  in  the  staging  where  prize  exhibits  and 
uncommended  vegetables  had  been.  Sweet-peas  and  carnations, 
their  function  over  for  good  and  ill,  found  their  way  to  fa- 
vored bosoms  and  buttonholes  as  relics  of  the  day.  Farmers 
with  cows  to  think  of,  and  those  whose  interest  in  the  Mersham 
Show  stopped  short  of  a  sixpenny  tea  in  the  refreshment  tent, 
took  the  tolling  of  the  bell  as  a  summons  homeward.  One  by 
one  the  horses  were  untethered  from  their  place  beneath  the 


2S8  FONDIE 

trees,  and  rumble  succeeding  rumble  told  of  another  cart  upon 
the  road,  while  across  the  cattle-cropped  and  sunburnt  sward 
there  drifted  wafts  of  fine  dust  mingled  with  dew.  Dod's 
father  and  mother,  squeezing  Dod's  sister  between  them  till 
she  looked  nothing  but  a  hat  with  two  hands  clinging  to  the 
brim,  drove  home  through  the  earliest  drifts  of  dust  before 
these  had  coalesced  into  the  later  haze.  There  was  some  alter- 
cation beside  the  spring-cart  as  to  our  going  home  with  them; 
Dod  contending  that  his  mother  had  promised  we  might  stay 
to  see  the  sports,  and  Dod's  mother  declaring  she  had  said  no 
such  thing,  and  Dod's  sister  meanly  beseeching  both  parents  in 
turn  (with  tears  of  vexatious  supplication  in  her  voice),  "Mek 
'em  come  along  wi'  us  an'  all!"  but  when  Dod  made  it  clear 
we  only  wished  to  see  the  tug  of  v/ar  and  were  driving  home  at 
its  conclusion  with  Fondie  Bassiemoor  when  he  came  to  fetch 
the  Vicar's  daughter  (who  had  to  be  home  by  eight)  his 
mother's  objections  waned,  and  his  father  said,  "Why,  let  'em 
stop  a  bit,  missus!"  and  gave  us  each  a  penny  for  our  'lowance, 
and  the  spring-cart  rocked  off  without  us.  A  sense  of  enor- 
mous liberty  supervened.  The  very  sky  seemed  to  withdraw 
with  their  departure  and  make  way  for  freedom.  The  sound 
of  the  big  drum,  beating  out  from  another  quarter  of  the  park, 
quickened  all  footsteps — including  Dod's  and  mine — to  the 
sports  inclosure,  where  already  more  people  were  gathered 
about  the  roped  stakes  than  we  were  glad  to  see,  Dod  declaring 
that  he  had  told  me  so,  and  we  ought  to  have  picked  our 
places  and  held  them  against  all  comers  half  an  hour  ago. 
Nevertheless,  by  polite  exercise  of  our  elbows  and  some  strategy, 
we  secured  stations  for  ourselves  against  a  rope  that  delimited 
the  special  inclosure  reserved  for  the  Rectorial  party,  where  a 
square  of  red  felt  had  been  laid  on  boarding  and  chairs  placed 
and  all  the  prizes  arranged  upon  a  table,  over  which  the  Mer- 
sham  policeman  kept  guard  in  his  Sunday  gloves.  Somebody 
protruding  a  face  over  the  rope  immediately  at  the  other  side  of 
the  inclosure  and  cooing  "Oo-lo-oo"  In  a  friendly  undertone. 


FONDIE  2S9 

Dod  said,  "Yon's  Blanche,  see  ye!"  and  we  let  go  of  the  rope 
on  our  side  of  the  inclosure  to  wave  our  hands,  which  Blanche 
reciprocated  with  a  smile  I  have  never  forgotten.  It  has 
often  come  into  my  mind  since.  I  wished  then  that  Provi- 
dence had  led  us  to  the  other  side  of  the  inclosure.  I  can't 
explain  why,  but  I  did.  However,  it  was  now  too  late  to  change 
without  grave  risk,  for  the  pressure  behind  us  had  increased 
since  first  we  squeezed  through  it,  and  at  times  we  were  bent 
double  beneath  the  weight  of  spectators,  with  nothing  but  the 
yielding  rope  to  hold  on  to.  Every  now  and  then  a  steward 
with  a  red  rosette  in  his  buttonhole  spread  his  hands  on  our 
faces  with  his  fingers  in  our  eyes,  and  pushed  us  back  as  if  we 
had  been  so  many  perambulators,  saying  "Hod  up,  can*t  ye!" 
as  though  the  fault  were  ours.  He  took  care  never  to  push  the 
beards  and  whiskers  at  the  back  of  us,  though  all  the  pressure 
came  from  them.  What  was  really  needed  was  a  steward  to 
pull  the  crowd  from  behind,  where  the  real  seat  of  the  mischief 
was. 

When  the  sports  had  been  in  progress  for  some  time  the 
Rectorial  party  arrived,  wrapped  in  the  drifting  odor  of  the 
Rectorial  cigar,  and  took  possession  of  the  red  felt  and  the  chairs 
provided,  while  the  constable  stood  with  his  white  dove  at 
salute,  and  somebody  cheered.  In  view  of  the  marked  attention 
that  the  young  Squire  had  bestowed  upon  us  in  the  afternoon, 
I  rather  hoped  he  might  glance  our  way  again  with  a  renewed 
look  of  recognition,  so  that  the  bystanders  might  see,  but  he 
passed  at  once  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  inclosure  (where 
Blanche  stood)  and  was  obscured  from  sight,  so  far  as  we  were 
concerned,  by  the  other  members  of  the  party  and  the  Rector's 
wife's  hat.  It  was  the  Rector,  however,  who  lent  importance 
to  the  inclosure.  He  took  charge  of  the  proceedings  and  led 
them  as  if  he  had  been  conducting  an  orchestra,  beckoning  here 
and  beckoning  there  and  putting  alternate  hands  to  alternate 
sides  of  his  mouth  to  send  his  voice  this  way  and  that,  and 
setting  all  the  stewards  on  the  field  in  motion,  so  that  they 


26o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

ran  at  his  dictation  as  hard  as  any  of  the  contestants  and  were 
as  breathless  and  red-faced  in  the  end.  At  the  conclusion  of 
every  race  the  judge  had  to  come  up  to  the  inclosure  to  make 
his  report,  the  Rector  shouting  to  him  as  he  advanced  at  a 
respectful  run,  "Well,  what  do  you  make  it,  Henry?"  and 
w^hen  Henry  made  it  contrary  to  the  Rector's  own  adjudication 
the  Rector  declared  in  a  genial  voice,  loud  enough  for  everybody 
around  to  hear,  "Fm  inclined  to  dispute  your  ruling,  HenrjM" 
and  did.  The  final  of  the  hundred-yard  race  was  proclaimed 
a  dead  heat  by  the  Rector's  direction,  and  I  heard  voices  express 
dissatisfaction  at  this,  saying  the  Rector  had  better  run  race 
with  hisself,  and  what  was  the  use  of  a  judge  at  all  if  he  couldn't 
be  allowed  to  judge?  One  voice  complained:  "Anybody 
"vt^ould  think  Rector  would  try  and  keep  prizes  i'  parish,  like. 
But  he'd  sooner  gie  'em  ti  onnybody  nor  a  Mersham  man. 
That's  two  he's  gien  ti  Hoommuth.  What's  Hoommuth  fel- 
lows want  wi'  Mersham?  Let  'em  gan  ti  Hoommuth  for 
their  prizes." 

By  the  time  the  last  of  the  tugs  of  war  had  been  strenuously 
fought  out  upon  the  turf,  with  a  straining  of  belts  and  sinews 
and  a  contortion  of  visages — reversed  in  the  paroxysm  of  contest 
— the  sun  had  already  sunk  behind  the  Mersham  trees  into  a 
ghostly  bath  of  gray  vapor  that  extinguished  its  last  glow  as 
if  the  sun  had  been  a  seething-hot  horseshoe  dipped  at  the 
tongs'  end  into  the  smith's  tank-  One  almost  heard  the  hiss 
of  the  burning  orb  as  it  plunged  into  the  incompatible  element 
and  chilled  quickly  to  an  indistinguishable  gray.  A  heavy  dew 
succeeded  the  heat  of  the  afternoon,  gathering  wet  upon  the 
eyelashes  and  making  the  electroplated  prizes  dim  as  though 
one  had  breathed  on  them.  Wisps  of  vapor  attached  to  the 
stars  like  hay  to  the  hedges  at  leading-time,  and  out  of  the 
mist-mantled  Mersham  trees  white  vapory  shapes  emerged 
slowly  in  single  file  to  float  about  the  park  and  hover  over  the 
hollow  places.  Some  of  these  shapes,  keen-edged  and  scythe- 
like, cut  the  tree  trunks  in  two  and,  crossing  the  racetrack, 


F  O  N  D  I  E  261 

severed  spectators'  legs  from  their  faces  and  decapitated  con- 
testants as  they  ran.  Dod  said,  "Gum!  My  feet's  cowdT' 
and  I  had  stamped  mine  a  time  or  two  before  he  spoke. 

The  playing  of  the  National  Anthem — that  plaintive  music 
forever  associated  v^'ith  disillusionment  and  the  termination  of 
good  things — took  the  v^^eight  off  our  shoulders  as  by  magic. 
The  Rector's  wife  (Sir  Lancelot's  distant  kinswoman),  already 
mantled,  with  a  fur  tippet  round  her  neck,  gave  away  the 
prizes  that  her  husband  handed  to  her,  hemmed  in  by  a  small 
graveside  group  of  hushed  stewards  and  mute  officials,  wearing 
their  importance  as  if  it  had  been  mourning,  and  obviously 
troubled  to  know  which  of  their  many  shifting  attitudes  was 
the  most  appropriate  to  the  occasion ;  but  nobody  paid  this  sad 
last  function  much  notice,  save  prize-winners  and  their  imme- 
diate friends. 

Dod  plucked  my  sleeve  contemptuously  and  said  "Let's  gan !" 
— which  everybody  else  at  that  time  appeared  to  be  doing.  The 
collapsible  wooden  music-desks  round  which  the  bandsmen  had 
stood  were  already  packed  on  a  hand-cart,  and  the  bandsmen 
themselves,  carrying  their  dew-dulled  instruments  or  the  glisten- 
ing japanned  cases  that  held  them,  moved  in  the  current  of  mere 
spectators,  smoking  pipes  and  accompanying  their  womenfolk 
toward  the  main  drive,  where  a  wagonette  awaited  them — 
a  mournful  indication  that  the  great  show  was  indeed  over  and 
that  little  else  could  now  be  expected  of  it. 

So,  the  evening  being  now  well  advanced,  and  the  hour  such 
(judging  by  the  firmament  and  atmospheric  conditions  and  the 
hooting  of  the  Mersham  owls)  that  we  did  not  care  to  inquire 
too  closely  respecting  it,  Dod  and  I  reluctantly  decided  there 
was  nothing  left  for  us  but  to  drive  home  with  Blanche  Bell- 
wood  and  Fondie  Bassiemoor — ^which  forthwith  we  proceeded 
to  do  at  a  double. 

Driving  thus  across  the  park  with  Fondie  Bassiemoor  and 
the  Vicar's  daughter,  Dod — ^whose  eyes  had  a  range  and  pene- 
tration altogether  beyond  the  power  of  my  restricted  town-bred 


262  F  O  N  D  I  E 

vision  to  follow;  descrying  countenances  where  I  saw  but 
darkness,  despite  the  assistance  of  his  forefinger  that  traced 
them  out  for  me  in  the  void  like  pictures  on  his  slate — demanded 
suddenly,  "Who's  yon?"  To  the  best  of  my  discernment  it 
was  but  a  thorn-bush  or  clump  of  gorse,  and  I  said  so,  but  Dod 
expressed  scorn  of  the  suggestion  and,  heading  me  sideward 
as  we  ran,  cried  out  "Good  neet!"  with  more  than  his  cus- 
tomary afFability.  Before  the  greeting  left  him,  to  be  sure, 
I  saw  that  the  thorn-bush  was  much  less  compact  than  it  had 
seemed  at  first  sight  to  be,  and  that  to  some  extent,  also,  it 
w^as  in  motion  like  ourselves.  But  even  then  I  could  distinguish 
nothing,  and  it  was  only  when  a  discreet,  but  quite  amicable, 
"Oo-li-oo!"  reciprocated  Dod's  salutation  that  I  was  able  to 
identify  part  of  the  thorn-bush  as  Blanche. 

"An'  diz  thoo  see  who  yon  is  talking  wi'  her?"  Dod  asked 
me  in  a  subdued  voice  of  some  tension.     I  said  "No." 

"It's  young  Squire  an'  all!" 

He  stopped  to  pull  up  his  stocking  and  tie  (so  he  averred)  his 
shoelace,  that  might  have  come  unfastene(j  for  anything  I  know 
to  the  contrary.  I  argued  that  it  could  not  be  the  young  Squire, 
for  Blanche  did  not  know  him,  but  Dod  said,  "She  knaws  him 
noo,  right  enough.     She's  been  efter  him  all  efternoon." 

This  was  news  to  me  and  I  rather  disputed  the  authenticity 
of  it,  for  I  had  the  impression  that  Blanche  had  shown  us  quite 
a  marked  degree  of  notice  during  the  afternoon,  and  Dod's 
statement  struck  at  the  tender  roots  of  pride.  Dod,  however, 
was  not  to  be  shaken  in  his  opinion,  adducing  (as  we  resumed 
our  course)  a  number  of  instances  to  support  his  theory,  and 
declaring  (as  like  as  not)  Blanche  had  dropped  her  handkerchief 
over  the  inclosure  for  the  young  squire  to  pick  up.  But  we 
had  not  gone  'far  before  we  w^ere  brought  to  a  standstill  by  a 
second  more  insistent  "Oo-li-oo!"  succeeded  after  awhile  by 
Blanche's  own  voice  exhorting  us  to  wait  of  her,  and  in  less 
than  half  a  minute  w^e  were  all  abreast,  resuming  the  drive 
homeward  with  Fondie  Bassiemoor  and  the  Vicar's  daughter. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  263 

To  Dod,  almost  immediately  on  joining  us,  she  presented  her 
bosom,  saying,  "Look!"  and  Dod  said,  "A  carnation!"  and 
Blanche  rejoined,  "You  don't  know  who  gave  me  that!"  and 
Dod  said  "I  do,"  and  Blanche  said  "You  don't!"  and  Dod 
said  "I  bet  you  a  penny  I  do,"  and  Blanche  asked  "Who?'* 
and  he  said  "Young  Squire,"  and  Blanche  exclaimed  "Go  on!" 
and,  after  a  moment,  "How  do  you  know?"  Dod  answered 
that  that  was  the  carnation  the  young  Squire  carried  in  his  but- 
tonhole. How  Dod  could  perceive  the  carnation  at  all  was  a 
mystery  to  me,  who  could  distinguish  Blanche's  profile  only 
with  difficulty  and  by  means  of  drafts  upon  imagination  and 
remembrance.  Blanche  said  "Go  on!"  again.  "Lots  of  folk 
had  carnations  besides  him.  I've  had  six  this  evening,  and 
given  them  'all  away  but  this."  Dod  suggested,  "Very  like 
he's  gotten  your  handkercher,"  and  Blanche  said,  "You  are  a 
silly,  Dod!"  "Show  it  me,  then,"  Dod  challenged  her,  and 
Blanche  demanded,  "Why  should  I?"  "Because  you  can't!" 
Dod  retorted.  For  answer  Blanche  drew  out  something  from 
her  skirt  pocket,  which  she  produced  with  a  triumphant  "What's 
that,  then?"  "It's  a  spare  handkercher  you  brought  wi'  ye!" 
Dod  declared.  Blanche  asked,  "How  do  you  know?"  and 
Dod  said,  "Because  she's  never  been  unlapped  yet.  Yon's 
not  same  handkercher  you  waved  tiv  him  when  you  was  stood 
wi*  us!"  and  Blanche  said,  "You  are  clever."  Blanche  seemed 
in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  after  her  first  skirmishings  in  regard 
to  the  young  squire  confided  to  us  that  he  was  "champion" 
and  "had  plenty  off."  "He's  going  to  take  me  over  the  Hall 
himself  some  day,"  Blanche  told  us,  "when  there  are  no  people 
there.  Just  the  two  of  us."  Even  in  the  starlit  mist  I  could 
discern  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  Blanche's  smile  across  Dod's 
cheek.  I  was  sorry  Providence  had  not  contrived  to  bring  her 
betwixt  us,  and  I  was  hoping  Providence  might  contrive  to 
improve  upon  this  lopsided  disposition  later,  but  Providence 
made  other  and  less  satisfactory  arrangements.  Just  as  a 
redistribution  of  our  unequal  forces  on  the  Whivvle  road  seemed 


264  F  O  N  D  I  E 

practicable,  and  even  imminent,  a  lampless  bicycle  overtook  us 
at  racing  pace,  urged  on  by  a  headless  rider,  and  Blanche  said 
"Pip!"  which,  though  uttered  in  the  lightest  voice,  took  the 
hump  off  the  rider's  back  and  brought  a  head  upon  his  shoulders 
in  no  time.  He  drew  up  so  abruptly  that  the  front  wheel  of 
his  bicycle  reared  like  a  prancing  steed,  and  before  I  understood 
that  Blanche  had  taken  leave  of  us  she  was  already  fading  away 
in  the  dusk  with  her  arms  about  the  rider's  neck,  letting  fall 
the  consolation  of  a  valedictory  "Oo-li-oo"  behind  her. 

So  Dod  and  I  drove  the  rest  of  the  journey  home  in  silence 
with  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  who  on  this  occasion  had  nothing  to 
say  for  himself;  and  Dod's  mother  asked  us,  when  the  dog 
announced  our  advent  and  Dod  blinked  in  the  kitchen  lamp- 
light with  me  behind  him,  if  this  was  eight  o'clock — which  (if 
my  memory  serves  me)   it  scarcely  was. 


THE  Mersham  Show,  passing  into  the  service  of  local 
chronology  like  a  sire  into  the  breeding-stud  for  the 
procreation  of  a  whole  progeny  of  legends,  headed  a 
new  chapter  in  the  life  of  Whiwle,  and  the  life  of  Whiwle 
seemed  thereafter  never  quite  the  same.  The  old  gentleman 
and  his  grandson,  for  instance,  were  never  afterwards  to  be 
met  with  on  the  Mersham  road,  or  to  be  seen  seated  on  the 
fallen  trunk  in  the  Mersham  park.  And  the  stream  of  inquir- 
ing bicycles  characteristic  of  the  month  of  August,  as  though 
dried  up  at  its  source,  shortly  ceased  altogether  to  trickle 
through  the  Whiwle  High  Street;  and  those  strange  wor- 
shippers with  watchful  eyes  and  furtive  bearing,  once  frequen- 
tative of  Sunday  service — ^whose  presence  distracted  the  choir 
and  embarrassed  the  pointing  of  the  Psalms — came  rarely 
to  the  Whiwle  Church.  Even  Blanche's  religious  principles 
participated  in  the  subtle  but  not  less  universal  change.     She 


FONDIE  265 

did  not,  it  is  true,  espouse  the  cause  of  the  American  organ 
dear  to  her  father's  heart  and  not  yet  dead  to  his  desires,  albeit 
seldom  mentioned  save  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  argue  it 
defunct,  but  she  conceived  a  taste  for  higher  and  more  choral 
worship,  and  cycled  to  Mersham  Church  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  hearing  the  singing,  which  (truth  to  tell)  since  Sir 
Lancelot's  death  was  far  from  what  it  had  been  or  might  be. 
To  be  sure,  the  presence  of  the  young  Squire  sitting  in  the 
Mersham  pew  beneath  the  ponderous  armorial  canopy  in  black 
oak  where  twenty  years  before  Sir  Lancelot's  self  had  sat,  along 
with  the  Rector's  wife,  the  stove,  table,  and  water-bottle,  served 
to  revive  (under  the  Rector's  fostering  care)  an  interest  in 
ecclesiastical  affairs,  and  caused  the  voluntary  choir  to  be  more 
regular  in  its  habits,  if  not  in  its  intonation.  Blanche  dis- 
carded, too,  the  usage  of  the  word  "sickening"  as  relative  to  life 
in  general,  and  adopted  instead  an  air  of  almost  jubilant  in- 
dulgence and  toleration  toward  Whivvle  affairs,  saying  that 
Whiwle  was  "right  enough."  The  flowers  drooping  at  her 
belt  were  now  notably  of  a  superior  quality  to  those  she  had 
displayed  before,  and  excluding  all  common  garden  or  corn- 
field blossoms  were  such  as  might  (one  could  believe)  have 
done  no  discredit  to  the  Mersham  Rector's  greenhouse.  Also, 
she  less  frequently  crunched  with  her  serviceable  and  com- 
placent white  teeth  the  boiled  sweets  and  mammoth  humbugs 
that  Deacon  Smeddy  purveyed  in  conjunction  with  the  Psalm- 
ist, but  displayed  no  stint  of  chocolates  of  undeniable  richness 
and  quality,  which  she  offered  to  acquaintances  with  as  much 
freedom  as  she  had  previously  dispensed  mere  mint-drops,  say- 
ing, "Here  you  are!" — supplemented  (in  the  case  of  such  old- 
established  associates  as  Fondie  Bassiemoor)  with  the  challenge, 
"You  don't  know  who  gave  me  those!"  And — in  case  of  such 
an  old-established  associate  as  Fondie  Bassiemoor — the  answer 
was  invariably  that  he  doubted  not,  miss ;  though  when  exhorted 
by  the  Vicar's  daughter  to  guess,  his  considerate  duplicity 
could  never  quite  extend  the  length  of  disclaiming  such  a  task 


266  F  O  N  D  I  E 

as  beyond  him,  but  modestly  suggested  (if  she  would  forgive 
him  being  wrong)  that  it  might  be,  mayhap,  the  young  gentle- 
man from  Mersham.  And  Blanche,  gratified  by  the  coveted  ac- 
cusation, would  declare  with  all  the  emphasis  of  her  white  teeth : 

"Go  on,  Fondie!     How  do  you  know!" 

Fondie  knew  because  everybody  in  Whivvle — save  and  ex- 
cepting Blanche's  father — knew.  When  Blanche  led  her  bi- 
cycle out  of  the  vicarage  gate  and  looked  first  this  way  and 
then  that,  as  though  debating  in  which  direction  her  ride  should 
lie,  no  reasonable  intelligence  in  Whivvle  doubted  for  a  moment 
the  course  the  ride  would  ultimately  take;  and  for  every  once 
that  she  headed  home  from  Merensea  she  came  back  half  a 
dozen  times  by  way  of  the  Mersham  Road,  from  the  attractive 
greenery  of  the  Mersham  Woods.  And  in  place  of  the  once 
familiar  bicyclists  and  strayed  worshippers,  the  active  eye  of 
Whivvle  grew  accustomed  to  the  single  person  of  a  dark-com- 
plexioned young  gentleman  on  horseback  in  white  cord  riding- 
breeches  and  tan  gloves,  who  ambled  through  Whivvle  at 
intervals  with  his  hat  at  the  back  of  his  head,  as  though  the 
world  were  of  no  concern,  and  his  gaze  leisurely,  as  though 
time  were  of  no  account;  whistling  soundlessly  to  himself 
through  piped  lips,  or  abstractedly  smoothing  the  withers  of 
his  horse  with  the  thong  of  his  riding  crop  or  caressing  the 
animal's  polished  neck  with  his  gloved  hand — at  sight  of  whom 
work  stopped  instantaneously,  as  if  its  cessation  had  been  com- 
manded through  a  megaphone.  Workers,  turned  on  the  instant 
to  statuary,  preserved  the  attitude  of  their  petrifaction  until  the 
horseman  had  passed  by,  and  foreheads  rose  four  inches  over 
wall-copings,  and  twice  that  height  over  hedge-tops,  and  human 
faces  grew  magically  out  of  geranium  pots  in  cottage  windows, 
and  graven  fingers  drew  starched  curtains  cautiously  aside,  and 
voices — hushed  for  all  the  world  as  though  the  young  gentle- 
man in  white  riding-breeches  with  the  tan  gloves  and  sleek 
velvet  eyebrows  were  the  portentous  figure  of  some  equerry 
of  Death — whispered:  "Yon's  him,  look  ye!" 


F  O  N  D  I  E  267 

For  Blanche  the  third  personal  pronoun — applied  so  indis- 
criminately and  yet  so  unmistakably  to  so  many  identities — • 
attached  itself  to  the  person  of  this  gloved  and  booted  rider 
with  the  force  of  a  proper  noun,  and  admitted  of  but  one  signifi- 
cance when  she  heard  or  uttered  it. 

Into  that  romantic  and  visionary  world  of  which  the  young 
gentleman  of  the  aud  hoose  and  Fondie  Bassiemoor  were  con- 
joint creators  and  sole  inhabitants,  the  equestrian  specter  brought 
dismay.  Betraying  visible  concern  in  his  eyes  and  agitation  in 
his  lips,  the  young  gentleman  sought  Fondie  Bassiemoor  in  the 
wheelwright's  yard  one  day  to  ask  him  how  he  did  and  how  his 
father  did,  and  how  his  mother  and  sister  did,  and  when  he 
heard  with  satisfaction  that  all  these  did  pretty  much  as  they 
usually  did,  dropped  his  voice  two  whole  tones  to  convey  to 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  the  ominous  intelligence  that  he  had  at  last 
seen  him.  The  intelligence  seemed  so  troubled  and  so  charged 
with  concern  that  one  might  have  thought  it  called  for  words 
of  condolence  and  sympathy,  though  these  were  lacking  on 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  part.  Notwithstanding,  he  saddened  l^is 
eyes  a  little  and  lowered  the  lids  over  them,  and  put  resignation 
into  the  curves  of  his  mouth  for  the  utterance  of  "Indeed,  sir!" 
The  young  gentleman,  still  preserving  the  tone  of  disturbed 
serenity  in  his  voice,  and  breathing  harder  through  his  nose  than 
was  usual  with  him,  specified  the  time  of  the  specter's  apparition. 
It  had  been  "just  now,'^  and  at  the  church  gate.  And  drop- 
ping his  voice  another  whole  tone,  the  young  gentleman  added, 
after  a  pause  that  seemed  desirous  of  preparing  his  listener  for 
the  worst:  "That's  not  all.     She  was  with  him." 

The  effect  upon  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  exterior  parts  was 
disappointing.  Perhaps  his  color  rose  a  shade — but  there  was 
little  to  denote  that  the  communication  had  any  bearing  on 
his  own  destiny,  and  all  he  said  by  way  of  acknowledgment  to 
the  young  gentleman  was,  "Very  like,  sir";  which  occasioned 
the  young  gentleman  some  surprise. 

"Very  like?" — and  then,  parenthetically  correcting  the  ex- 
18 


268  F  O  N  D  I  E 

pression  for  Fondie's  benefit,  "Very  likely"  (which  Fondle 
thanked  him  for  and  repeated) — "How  do  you  mean?  Did 
you  know?" 

Why,  In  a  way  Fondle  had  known,  and  In  a  way  he  hadn't, 
sir.  He'd  heard  folk  talk — If  one  could  call  that  knowing; 
though  it  wasn't  (in  his  experience)  a  very  safe  sort  of  knowl- 
edge to  rely  on,  sir.  The  young  gentleman,  with  a  shade  of 
reproach  in   his  intonation,   remarked,   ''You   never  told  me." 

Why  (again),  so  far  as  that  went,  Fondle  admitted  he 
hadn't.  He  found  extenuation  of  this  confessed  offence  In  the 
fact  that  it  had  been  In  his  mind  a  time  or  two,  sir.  But  he 
had  not  wished  to  trouble  the  young  gentleman.  "Talking 
can't  alter  things,  sir,"  he  said.  "Sometimes  It  only  makes 
them  worse.  HI  was  to  repeat  everything  I  heard  I  should 
be  no  better  than  them  that  says  them."  "What  things  do 
they  say?"  and  Fondle  answered,  after  putting  the  question  in 
mental  perspective  and  viewing  it  with  a  troubled  visage, 
"Why,  nothing  much  but  what  you've  seen  for  yourself,  sir." 

Yes.  They  had  been  together  this  afternoon,  said  the  young 
gentleman.  Blanche  was  seated  on  the  stile,  and  the  third 
person  singular  stood  by  her,  dismounted  from  his  horse  with 
an  elbow  on  the  stile  and  an  arm  looped  through  the  slackened 
reins. 

To  the  young  gentleman  much  more  than  to  Fondle  Bassle- 
moor — who,  while  expressing  modest  understanding  of  what 
the  young  gentleman  meant,  stood  respectfully  aside  from  his 
apprehensions  as  one  devoid  of  right  or  title  to  take  more  than 
passive  part  in  them — the  issue  appeared  calamitous.  The 
coming  of  this  representative  of  the  wrongful  occupants  of 
Mersham  had  made  things  difficult  enough  at  the  aud  hoose. 
So  long  as  Mersham,  while  nominally  possessed,  had  preserved 
its  aspect  of  non-proprietory  neglect,  imagination,  uncontested, 
had  been  at  liberty  to  seize  upon  this  patrimony  as  its  own. 
But  the  Mersham  Show,  setting  the  public  seal  upon  injustice, 
and  bringing  an  emissary  to  perpetuate  It,  had  deprived  Imaglna- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  269 

tlon  of  its  hold  upon  the  things  it  clung  to  and  made  it  outcast 
and  despondent;  fiercely  resentful,  too,  in  his  grandfather's 
instance.  The  mere  sight  of  the  double-demy  show-bills — by 
kind  permission  of  Edward  Foljambe  D'Alroy,  Esq. — pla- 
carded on  tree  trunks  and  barn  gables  served  to  send  the  old 
gentleman  back  into  the  walled  retirement  of  the  aud  hoose, 
from  which,  of  late,  he  had  betrayed  less  disinclination  to  wan- 
der, with  mortification  in  his  breast.  The  half-thawed  springs 
of  condescension  froze  again.  Even  to  Fondie  Bassiemoor  he 
became  remote  and  monosyllabic  once  more,  and  heard  (when 
he  heard  at  all)  with  much  of  the  old  difficulty  and  impatience, 
demanding,  "Eh?  What?"  as  he  had  done  when  Blanche 
first  bearded  him  amid  the  tin  cans  and  mildewed  boots  that 
littered  the  shrubbery  beyond  his  glass-topped  wall.  On  the 
day  of  the  Mersham  Show  the  padlock  (rusty  with  long  disuse) 
went  back  upon  the  aud  hoose  gates,  and  while  the  westerly 
wind  blew — along  with  the  black  advancing  wall  of  thunder — 
the  melancholy  jubilation  of  the  Mersham  peal  as  far  as 
Whivvle,  the  old  gentleman  and  the  young  worked  together 
at  a  table  that  groaned  beneath  big  books  of  blazonry  and 
endless  literary  and  documentary  encumberment  of  genealogical 
research. 

Upon  the  old  gentleman  the  sound  of  the  bells  had  an  effect 
comparable  to  the  boom  of  cannon  upon  the  resolute  besieged. 
It  was  as  if  they  were  beleaguered  by  bells  and  held  the  citadel 
against  these  brazen  assailants  of  their  honor  and  their  peace. 
To  the  young  gentleman  when  the  first  rang  out — 'losing 
sight  of  the  usurpation  of  his  own  glory  that  they  betided,  and 
listening  with  an  interest  and  modest  self-detachment  not  un- 
worthy of  the  wheelwright's  son — the  music  fell  with  a  sweetly 
mournful  cadence,  wafted  over  the  garden  wall  with  thoughts 
of  Blanche  and  Fondie,  and  speculations  concerning  this  after- 
noon. He  could  have  wished,  indeed,  even  at  such  a  crisis 
as  this,  that  he  had  been  but  Dod  or  the  BuUocky,  or  some 
such  other,  to  taste  the  sweetness  of  the  chiming  to  its  full. 


270  F  O  N  D  I  E 

unemblttered  by  any  intrusion  of  self  and  tincture  of  corrosive 
pride;  and  for  some  moments  associated  himself  so  completely 
with  the  joyfulness  of  the  outer  world,  and  lent  the  bells 
such  a  pleasant  and  favoring  ear,  that  the  old  gentleman  (sur- 
prising the  look  of  rapt  attention  upon  his  face)  demanded — 
as  though  with  quick  suspicion  of  the  verity. 

"What  Is  it?" 

He  answered  thoughtlessly:  *'The  bells." 

"The  bells!     What  bells?" 

"The  Mersham  bells. 

With  the  mention  of  the  magic  name  of  Mersham  the  old 
gentleman's  hearing  was  opened  like  the  heavens,  and  he  heard 
them.  He  heard  them  with  incredulity  and  anger;  anger,  that 
these  bells  were  ringing  in  a  cause  so  unrighteous;  incredulity, 
that  his  grandson  could  have  displayed  no  more  pride  than 
to  listen  to  these  disinheritors  of  his  glory  with  a  countenance 
so  utterly  Insensible  of  the  wrong  they  did  him.  The  Mersham 
bells  were  his  bells.  They  should  have  been  ringing  for  him, 
H  he  had  been  possessed  of  any  proper  pride,  the  sound  of  these 
suborned  bells  should  have  stung  him  to  the  angry  exercise  of 
It,  not  to  complacent  smiles.  With  a  patch  of  crimson  smoul- 
dering or^  the  withered  whiteness  of  each  cheek,  he  threw  out 
a  waxen  fist  toward  the  bells  and  shook  It,  as  If  he  cursed  them. 
Come!  They  were  both  to  blame.  They  were  dreaming  their 
days  away.  Deeds,  not  words.  To  work,  both  of  them.  Let 
the  bells  ring!  They  should  ring  again  before  long.  They 
should  ring  to  a  better  purpose,  a  better  cause.  Truth  and 
justice  should  prevail. 

XI 

BUT  now  a  worse  thing  had  befallen. 
This    new-found    friendship    of    Blanche    with    the 
Third  Person  seemed  to  threaten  the  very  foundations 
and  assail  the  security  of  that  blest  and  visionary  world  In 


FONDIE  27t 

which  the  young  gentleman  and  Fondle  Bassiemoor  had  lived 
so  equably  and  taken  refuge  from  the  realities  of  the  outer 
world  so  long.  For  how  could  the  young  gentleman  profess 
friendship  with  the  friend  of  his  enemy?  If  Blanche  learned 
who  he  really  was,  how  could  Blanche  in  turn  be  friends  with 
him — viewing  her  friendship  with,  this  other — or  friends  with 
Fondie,  knowing  Fondie  to  be  his  inalienable  friend?  At  all 
points  the  issue  was  vexed  with  difficulties. 

Before  (he  explained  to  Fondie)  it  had  only  been  Mersham: 
the  great  Hall  and  the  park,  and  the  things  that  went  along 
with  these.  But  now  it  was  personal.  It  was  somebody — 
somebody  he  had  never  wished  to  see  or  know  or  meet.  To 
obtain  what  rightly  was  his  own,  somebody  must  first  be  de- 
prived of  it.  Somebody  he  had  never  seen  until  this  afternoon ; 
somebody  whom  he  ought  in  duty  bound  to  hate,  and  could 
not;  somebody  whom  (by  what  he  had  seen  of  him)  he  might 
almost  come  to  like,  yet  must  not,  and  had  to  hope  that  he 
might  never  see  again. 

Fondie,  in  the  troubled  silence  that  followed,  said  he  saw, 
sir.  "I  should  feel  the  same,  maybe,  if  it  was  me."  From 
considerations  of  the  ethical  difficulties  in  which  Blanche's  ac- 
quaintance with  the  newcomer  plunged  all  parties  concerned, 
the  young  gentleman  turned  his  attention  to  Fondie*s  particular 
share  in  them,  and  tried  with  all  the  delicacy  at  his  command 
to  probe  the  state  of  Fondie's  feelings.  Fondie's  feelings  were 
as  they  always  seemed  to  be,  resigned  and  uncomplaining. 
That  the  Vicar's  daughter  had  found  still  a  fresh  interest  in  a 
fresh  quarter,  ignoring  him,  occasioned  him  neither  resentment 
nor  surprise.  Do  what  he  would  he  would  never  be  able  to 
make  himself  worthy  of  her.  They  were — if  the  young  gentle- 
man would  kindly  allow  the  expression — as  good  friends  as 
they  ever  had  been,  but  nothing  more.  No,  nothing  more,  sir. 
Miss  Blanche  had  been  sat  in  the  workshop  that  very  morning, 
and  several  times  of  late,  and  had  never  conversed  with  him 
nicer  or  more  familiar  than  now  she  did.    But  for  that  reason, 


272  F  O  N  D  I  E 

if  for  no  other,  it  behooved  Kim  not  to  presume  on  the  con- 
fidence reposed  in  him,  or  suffer  her  kindness  to  deceive  him 
into  thinking  it  other  than  it  was.  When  gentlefolk  came  to 
see  Miss  Blanche  on  horseback,  sir,  it  was  scarce  likely  she 
would  think  a  deal  about  a  working  man  in  drill  trousers,  with 
machine  grease  in  his  finger-nails.  And  grammar — if  the  young 
gentleman  would  absolve  him  of  ingratitude — only  served  to 
show  a  man  his  shortcomings  without  doing  much  to  mend 
them.  Not  that  he  would  cease,  sir,  to  strive  to  make  himself 
a  better  scholar  than  he  was,  and  a  better  man  than  he  had 
been;  but  he  doubted  that  for  the  future  he  must  prosecute  his 
studies  for  their  own  sake,  and  not  for  any  reward  that  had, 
strictly  speaking,  nothing  to  do  with  them  at  all,  sir.  Virtue, 
as  had  been  truly  said,  was  its  own  reward.  "And  after  all, 
sir,  if  Miss  Blanche  can  find  more  happiness  in  somebody  else's 
company  than  in  mine — that  has  nothing  much  to  commend  it, 
I'll  admit — I  oughtn't  to  begrudge  her.  I  ought  to  be  the  first 
to  feel  glad  of  it  for  her  sake.  One  can't  pretend  to  care  a 
deal  for  anybody,  sir,  unless  one  puts  their  happiness  before 
one's  own." 

And  if  Blanche's  happiness  was  what  Fondie  .coveted  most 
diligently,  without  seeking  to  make  himself  the  sole  channel  of 
It — as  is  the  selfish  way  of  the  generality  of  lovers — then  great 
must  have  been  his  reward,  for  Blanche's  happiness  w^as  patent 
to  every  eye  (save  the  parental)  and  in  the  splendid  jubila- 
tion of  her  smile  was  something  almost  akin  to  the  triumph  of 
trumpets.  By  the  irony  of  that  ironic  fate,  too,  which  respects 
no  fitness  in  human  affairs  and  makes  mankind  the  victim  of 
its  most  preposterous  paradoxes,  it  was  to  Fondie  rather  than 
any  other  to  whom  Blanche  seemed  to  turn  when  her  over- 
flowing and  exuberant  bosom  experienced  the  need  of  some 
confidant — some  amicable  and  sympathetic  vessel  into  which  she 
might  discharge  her  overflow^ing  happiness  without  repulse  of 
pride  or  acridity  of  jealousy.  For  the  carrier's  daughter,  now 
deeply  engrossed  in  the  plenishment  of  that  mysterious  "bottom 


F  O  N  D  I  E  273 

drawer"  by  day  and  In  those  mysterious  perambulations  that 
pass  under  the  name  of  courtship  by  night,  was  no  longer  quite 
the  confidante  she  had  been — betraying  too  much  tendency  to 
magnify  the  importance  of  her  own  affairs,  and  too  much  dis- 
position to  see  in  Blanche's  buoyant  happiness  a  challenge  and 
belittlement  of  her  own. 

Those  latent  jealousies,  in  point  of  fact,  that  underlie  all  the 
affections  of  the  fairer  sex  and  are  at  the  root  of  their  dearest 
protestations  of  friendship  had  been  mutually  aroused.  The 
happiness  of  each  was  an  antagonism,  quick  to  suspect  the  other 
of  superiorities;  and  though  the  alienation  of  their  friendship 
had  been  in  the  first  place  due  to  the  carrier's  daughter,  by  the 
light  of  Blanche's  new  interest  her  sex  found  convenient  to  lose 
sight  of  the  fact,  affirming  to  her  mother  that  the  Vicar's 
daughter  was  grown  too  grand  for  her,  and  she  saw  it  now. 
In  which  susceptible  frame  of  mind  she  was  prone  to  find 
offence  with  the  most  innocent  words  and  actions  of  her  former 
friend.  The  Vicar's  daughter  had  only  called  (for  instance) 
at  such  a  time  or  other  because  she  knew  her  quondam  insepa- 
rable would  be  at  the  washtub  with  her  head  pinched  up  in 
curl-papers,  or  at  the  ironing  board  with  a  pink  flannelette 
face  and  forehead — in  order  that  Blanche  might  triumph  in 
the  parade  of  her  own  leisure  and  make  believe  she  was  a 
lady. 

All  of  which  argument  (or  most  of  it),  though  false  as  false, 
was  feminine  as  could  be,  and  did  its  share  in  widening  the 
breach  between  them. 

In  October  the  equestrian  figure  vanished  from  the  view  of 
Whiwle,  to  be  "larned  high  books"  at  Oxford,  in  the  words 
of  the  vernacular.  Blanche,  in  all  her  resplendent  best,  called 
round  at  the  wheelwright's  yard  to  ask  Fondie  if  he  noticed 
anything  funny  about  her  eyes.  Fondie,  after  a  spasmodic 
lowering  of  his  own — which  was  his  equivalent  for  inspection — 
answered,  "Not  particular,  he  hadn't,  miss!"  eliciting  from 
Blanche  the  query,  How  was  he  like  to  notice  anything  with- 


274  FONDIE 

out  looking?  Thus  admonished,  he  took  more  courageous  stock 
of  them,  and  repeated  his  previous  assurance,  albeit  with  a 
private  conviction  that  they  w^ere  somewhat  bluer  (if  anything) 
than  his  modesty  had  conceived  them  before.  "Do  they  look 
as  if  I  had  been  crying?"  Blanche  demanded.  Judged  by  the 
expansive  area  of  smile  below  them  they  certainly  did  not, 
although  there  was  a  brilliance  about  themselves  and  a  glossi- 
ness about  their  lashes  that  (now  Blanche  drew  attention  to  the 
fact)  had  a  certain  affinity  to  tears,  and  might  lend  a  certain 
color  to  the  supposition.  Still,  Fondie  decided,  not  in  his 
opinion,  miss,  as  being  the  politest  form  of  answer  under  the 
circumstances.  Blanche,  after  a  perceptible  pause  in  which  she 
seemed  to  consider  whether  this  answer  was  consolatory  or  the 
opposite,  remarked,  "That's  all  right,  then!" — but  added,  lest 
Fondie  might  accept  this  bravado  too  much  at  its  surface  value, 
"I  have,  though.  Surely  you  must  have  noticed!  You 
couldn't  but  help!"  She  had  just  seen  the  third  person  sin- 
gular go — having  cycled  over  to  the  level  crossing  beyond 
Mersham  for  the  purpose.  At  least,  she  had  not  seen  the  third 
person  really,  for  he  had  warned  her  he  might  not  be  able  to 
look  out  of  the  carriage  window  or  wave  his  hand  if  the  Rector 
traveled  up  with  him — and  she  supposed  the  Rector  must  have 
done  so.  It  was  always  the  way.  But  she  had  descried  part 
of  a  head  that  she  felt  sure  was  his  in  a  first-class  carriage,  and 
she  saw  the  horse-box  at  the  tail  end  of  the  train.  She  knew 
he  was  taking  his  horse,  for  he  had  told  her  so.  He  meant  to 
hunt  with  the  Bicester.  Everything  was  sickening  again,  of 
a  sudden,  and  Whivvle  felt  awful.  Didn't  Fondie  feel  how 
awful  it  felt?     Good  gracious,  Fondie  never  felt  anything! 

The  third  person  had  promised  to  write  to  her,  and  she  had 
promised  to  write  to  him.  Perhaps  there  would  be  a  picture 
post  card  from  him  in  the  morning.  Did  Fondie  think  there 
would?  Fondie  thought  it  very  likely,  miss.  And  did  Fondie 
know  what  she  intended  doing?  She  intended  crocheting  a 
silk  necktie  in  the  third  person's  college  colors  for  his  birth- 


FONDIE  275 

day.    She  knew  when  his  birthday  was ;  It  was  on  December  2. 
He  would  be  nineteen. 

She  would  come  and  sit  with  Fondle  and  get  on  with  the 
crocheting  of  the  necktie  while  Fondle  worked.  In  the  hour 
of  divorcement  from  what  had  constituted  her  happiness  all 
these  recent  weeks  she  made,  and  communicated,  a  great  dis- 
covery— the  same  discovery  that  the  young  gentleman  had 
made,  and  communicated,  months  and  months  before.  There 
was  no  one  to  talk  to  In  Whivvle  but  Fondle.  Everybody  else 
was  sickening.  She  had  no  friends.  Nobody  In  Whiwie  cared 
for  her.    Fondle  was  the  onl^  friend  she  had. 


XII 


ONE  afternoon  In  mid-November  Blanche  Bellvvood 
walked  out  by  the  familiar  gateway  of  the  vicarage 
garden.  She  carried  no  Sunday  Sacred  In  her  hand, 
nor  paper  fruit  bag  with  the  crochet-hook  protruding  that  had 
(in  recent  days)  superseded  the  more  frivolous  ensign  of  her 
early  youth  and  Imparted  an  air  of  almost  sober  Industry  to 
her  comings  and  goings  before  the  face  of  Whivvle.  No  ban- 
gles tinkled  at  her  wrists;  the  Hunmouth  stockings  were  re- 
placed by  unostentatious  hose  to  which  not  even  the  most 
uncompromising  parent  could  have  taken  exception;  and  when 
the  gate  clashed  behind  her  and  she  came  out  of  the  untidy, 
weed-grown  garden  Into  the  grass-fringed  pathway  beyond,  she 
stood  for  awhile  with  her  face  turned  dubiously  in  the  direc*- 
tion  of  Whivvle  as  an  unaccustomed  traveler  might  have  stood 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  horizon  of  a  new  country,  not 
knowing  what  hazards  or  hospitalities  It  held  in  store  for 
him. 

For  this  was  not  the  Blanche  of  old.  This  was  not  the 
Blanche  of  "Don't  cares"  and  "Aren't  frighteneds."  This  was 
another  Blanche,  born  of  the  fierce  crucible  of  the  cares  and 


276  F  ON  DIE 

fears  she  had  once  so  recklessly  defied.  For  all  her  flamboyant 
contempt  of  him,  indeed — to  which  he  had  appeared  so  long 
indifferent — Time  had  chosen  this  month  to  take  a  stern  re- 
venge at  last ;  a  revenge  more  stern  than  any  benign  and  hoary- 
headed  figure  of  Time's  antiquity  ought  ever  to  have  taken 
upon  one  of  such  gentle  sex  and  tender  inexperience,  and  never 
again  would  the  Vicar's  daughter  be  able  to  accuse  this  aged 
despot  that  nothing  happened.  And  though  she  chose  the 
Whivvle  road  and  followed  it,  her  own  volition  took  no  part 
in  the  choice — save  indeed  to  shrink  from  it — for  there  was  no 
road  she  wished  to  walk  on,  and  no  place  she  wished  to  go  to, 
now;  and  no  person  in  the  world  she  wished  to  see  or  whose 
eyes  she  wished  to  meet,  or  whose  face  brought  comfort  to  her. 
Something  stronger  than  her  will — some  wild,  resistless  instinct 
stung  out  of  its  sleep  by  the  poison  of  her  fear — seemed  as  if 
it  drove  her  forth  from  the  unbearable  silence  of  her  dreadful 
home  to  seek  in  fellowship  she  knew  not  what,  whether  com- 
fort or  courage  or  the  confirmation  of  this  dreadful  thing;  the 
dire  unveiling  of  the  visage  of  that  shrouded  terror  that  reigned 
in  her  bosom,  undeclared  and  featureless;  oppressing  every 
thought  and  tyrannizing  over  every  nerve  and  darkening  every 
avenue  of  joy  and  turning  all  the  loveliness  of  life  into  a  taunt 
and  mockery,  as  though  the  sunlight  were  a  hot  whisper  in- 
sinuating her  shame,  and  the  blue  sky  above  her  Nature's  con- 
temptuous and  unmerciful  smile.  For  it  was  one  of  those 
benign  Martinmas  days  in  which  the  aging  year  seems  all  at 
once  to  recall  summer,  as  an  old  face,  smiling,  does  its  youth. 
The  sun,  of  a  gold  as  soft  as  wheat  straw,  sat  burnlessly  in  a 
milk-blue  sky,  diffusing  a  beneficent  dry  warmth  over  the  land ; 
and  beneath  his  glory  the  remnants  of  the  dying  foliage  that 
still  clung  to  tree  and  hedgerow  assumed  the  splendor  of  rare 
flowers.  Cardinal  and  russet,  bronze  and  red  and  citron  yellow 
lent  the  dying  leaves  a  beauty  beyond  anything  they  had  ever 
known  in  life;  and  in  the  tranquil  sunfulness  that  lulled  all 
these  leaves  it  almost  seemed  as  though  the  cadence  of  the  year 


FOND  IE  277 

should  never  find  a  close,  but  dream  on  perpetually  like  this, 
in  deathless  protraction. 

Thoughts  of  Fondie  and  the  comfortable  sanctuary  of  the 
dim  workshop  at  the  end  of  the  wheelwright's  yard  haunted 
Blanche's  mind  as  she  walked.  She  would  have  desired  no 
better,  dearer  termination  to  her  journey  than  the  big  bench 
moored  like  a  raft  in  a  sea  of  shavings  beneath  the  tempered 
rays  that  fell  upon  it  through  the  spider-curtained  skylight  of 
glass,  while  the  sun  stabbed  the  pantiled  roof  in  a  score  of  places 
with  beams  as  sharp  and  keen  as  corn  straws,  and  fused  the 
shavings  on  the  floor  as  if  it  would  have  fired  them;  where, 
whilst  Fondie  worked,  and  his  bare  arms  passing  to  and  fro 
amid  the  spears  of  light  flashed  vividly  each  time  these  broke 
upon  the  flesh,  she  might  have  sat  in  that  serene  happiness  of 
blessed  discontent  that  had  once  been  hers,  and  out  of  the  very 
security  of  a  heart  at  healthy  peace  with  all  the  world  pro- 
claimed the  world  "sickening,"  and  in  this  familiar  allegation 
known  her  heart  happy.  But  now,  though  her  footsteps — 
responding  to  no  dictation  of  her  own,  but  the  restless  instinct 
that  impelled  them — led  her  past  the  wheelwright's  signboard 
in  the  main  street,  her  heart,  when  she  came  abreast  of  the  once 
frequented  yard,  sank  dolefully  within  her  as  though  this  place 
of  shelter  and  of  comfort  were  sternly  barred.  No  sign  of 
Fondie  at  once  punished  and  consoled  the  look  she  turned  in 
passing.  The  yard  was  still  and  desolate,  draped  with  the 
lingering  horror  that  hung  over  her  and  made  of  all  Whivvle 
a  place  of  desolation  and  disaster.  Her  lips,  it  is  true,  remem- 
bered their  old-time  smile;  but  that  was  no  more  than  a  habit, 
born  of  physical  necessity.  Voices  said  "Hello!"  or  "Good 
day,"  and  her  own  voice,  like  an  echo,  returned  the  greeting; 
but  to  Blanche,  with  her  lips  parted  and  the  corpse  of  a  slain 
smile  between  them,  these  greetings  were  as  terrifying  knocks 
upon  the  gate  of  conscience,  causing  her  heart  to  stumble  be- 
neath the  burden  it  bore.  And  every  greeting  given  and  ac- 
knowledged, and  every  face  she  met,  affected  the  unexpressed 


278  F  O  N  D  I  E 

purpose  of  her  footsteps,  as  if  they  had  been  ambuscades  and 
perils  on  her  way.  Each  grew  more  terrifying  than  the  last; 
a  face  twice  seen,  or  a  smile  a  second  time  encountered,  made 
her  soul  grow  sick. 

And  yet,  the  instinct  stronger  than  her  will  and  more  au- 
thoritative than  her  fears  drove  her  before  it  with  a  step  so 
like  her  own  in  happier  times  that  not  the  keenest  eye  could 
have  suspected  the  Vicar's  daughter  to  be  led  by  anything  but 
her  own  desires,  and  brought  her  to  the  carrier's  gate  at  last. 

All  was  as  it  had  been  when  Blanche  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
wicket  and  passed  into  the  garden.  The  dog,  barking  her  very 
name  in  joyous  monosyllables,  ran  out  with  a  rattle  of  chain 
from  his  bone-littered  kennel  by  the  kitchen  door,  strangulating 
himself  into  a  fit  of  coughing  through  the  strenuous  endeavors 
of  his  friendliness  to  reach  her,  aggravated  by  the  sound  of 
her  voice  and  her  extension  of  an  unattainable  hand.  The 
tortoise-shell  cat  sat  licking  herself  in  the  sun  on  the  blued 
flagstone  before  the  kitchen  door,  by  the  roots  of  the  jargonelle 
pear  tree  that  pushed  its  stem  out  of  the  cobbles  and  spread  its 
branches  right  and  left  over  the  weathered  bricks  of  the  kitchen 
gable.  Everything,  everywhere,  was  as  it  had  been,  and  this 
immutability  of  things  about  her  marked  all  the  more  terribly 
the  change  and  alteration  in  her  own  bosom.  That  these  ex- 
ternal features  could  be  so  unmoved,  and  she  (within  herself) 
so  altered,  filled  her  with  an  inexpressible  sense  of  alienation, 
of  divorce  from  all  that  had  spelled  life  for  her  until  this  hour. 
If — so  did  her  heart  stand  still  before  the  threshold  of  the 
carrier's  kitchen,  as  though  it  had  been  the  threshold  of  Destiny 
itself — if  she  could  have  drawn  back  now  she  would  have  done 
£0,  for  at  this  moment  her  fear  was  stronger  than  the  instinct 
that  led  her,  but  the  figure  of  the  carrier's  wife  seen  obscurely 
at  the  bread-board  in  the  darkened  kitchen  beyond,  and  the 
voice  of  the  carrier's  wife,  apostrophizing  Blanche  in  welcom- 
ing and  friendly  tones  as  "quite  a  stranger,"  forbade  all  flight. 

Blanche   entered.     The   kitchen   was   hot   and   horrible — a 


F  O  N  D  I  E  279 

purgatory  for  souls  in  pain.  The  last  of  the  Martinmas  flies 
buzzed  about  the  window,  and  ever  and  anon  raised  despairing 
death-songs  from  the  viscous  papers  spread  out  for  their  de- 
structlofi  from  the  celling.  A  great  fire  burned  in  the  grate, 
for  whose  better  combustion  the  blind  had  been  suffocatingly 
drawn  against  the  sun's  rivalry.  On  the  fender,  shrouded  with 
a  napkin,  stood  a  pancheon  of  swollen  dough,  already  risen 
above  the  pancheon's  rim.  The  heat  from  the  glowing  fire 
struck  Blanche's  cheek  with  a  burning  and  unbearable  force. 
It  was  as  if  this  fiery  element  had  fiercely  accosted  her  and 
brought  her  to  book  with  the  weight  of  a  hot  and  ruthless  hand, 

**Set  ye  down,  Blanche,"  said  the  carrier's  wife.  "Shift  yon 
wet  dish-clout  off  o'  chair-back,  will  ye?  My  hands  is  all 
flour." 

Blanche  displaced  the  dish-cloth  and  sat  down  with  a  sound 
through  her  lips  expressive  of  the  intolerable  warmth  within. 

"You're  hot  in  here." 

"Aye,  it's  warm  i'  kitchen,"  the  carrier's  wife  admitted. 
"But  one  can't  bake  wi'oot  fire.  Fire  was  ti  mek  up  again, 
a  while  sin'.     Maybe  you  feel  it  more,  wi'  walkin'." 

"Where's  Ada?" 

"Didn't  ye  knaw?" 

Yes,  Blanche  knew.  Save  for  the  reassuring  knowledge, 
indeed,  this  kitchen  too  would  have  been  barred  to  her  fears 
today,  like  the  wheelwright's  workshop.  Nevertheless,  she 
shook  her  head  and  answered,  "No,"  inquiring  by  an  after- 
thought, "Where  is  she?" 

"She's  i*  Hunmouth,  stopping  wi*  Arthur's  sister.  It  caps 
me  nobody's  telt  ye.  She  was  wondering  you  hadn't  been  ti 
see  her  latellns.  Nobbut  you'd  come  day  before  yesterday  you'd 
'a  seen  her  before  she  left." 

Blanche  emitted  an  expressionless  and  perfunctory  "Oh." 
The  sound  of  the  magic  name  of  Hunmouth,  that  had  been 
once  upon  a  time  her  symbol  for  all  that  betokened  liberty  and 
life,   stirred  her  no  more.      Hunmouth  was  but  a   dead   and 


28o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

withered  word,  awakening  no  envies,  no  desires;  signifying 
nothing  to  her  state  of  despair.  She  sat  with  the  sunlit  door 
in  the  corner  of  an  eye,  that  showed  her  the  tortoise-shell  cat 
making  complacent  toilet  on  the  hot  flagstone  beyond,  and 
watched  with  hypnotic  and  abstracted  attention  the  work  of 
the  carrier's  wife  at  the  paste-board — kneading  the  dough  with 
resolute  big  fists  and  floury  forearms,  and  dredging  from  the 
big  tin  dredger  by  the  board-side,  that  sent  drifts  of  impalpable 
fine  powder  to  make  commotion  in  the  sunlight  and  cause  the 
doorway  beams  to  dance.  A  voice — Blanche's  own  voice,  issu- 
ing (to  her  own  ear)  from  some  strangely  remote  and  discon- 
nected part  of  her,  as  though  it  had  slipped  into  articulation 
without  the  complicity  of  her  lips — asked  when  Ada  would  be 
home  again  (not  that  the  voice  had  any  Interest  to  know; 
knowing,  in  fact,  already),  and  the  carrier's  wife  said.  At 
week-end  (she  expected),  but  It  was  bad  to  tell.  She  shook 
her  head  In  Indulgent  anathema  of  the  bottom  drawer,  declar- 
ing, "Oh,  that  bottom  drawer!  I  wish  it  was  far  enough!" 
and  communicating  that  the  bottom  drawer  was  filling  fast — 
it  was  as  much  as  Ada  could  do,  now,  to  open  it  or  shut  it  to 
again,  with  the  press  of  things  inside;  and  still  it  wasn't  satis- 
fied, but  swallowed  money  as  fast  as  she  could  make  It,  and 
cried  for  more ;  and  Ada  was  growing  very  restless  to  be  gone, 
and  commenced  to  find  a  deal  of  fault  with  her  old  home  and 
her  old  father  and  mother;  and  they  might  look  to  lose  her  at 
any  time  now.  First  It  had  been  next  August,  and  then  next 
June,  and  now  It  had  got  to  April,  and  she  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  they  had  to  part  wl'  her  by  New  Year.  Well,  to  be 
sure!  She  wasn't  grumbling,  bottom  drawer  made  all  girls 
alike.  When  once  they  got  that  Into  their  heads,  home  was 
no  more  good  to  them.  They  never  settled  and  couldn't  agree, 
and  wouldn't  be  satisfied  till  they  was  gone.  She'd  been  the 
same  herself.     It  would  be  Blanche's  turn  next. 

Once  upon  a  time — and  that  time  not  long  ago — Blanche 
would  have  answered  with  the  full  collaboration  of  her  smile, 


F  O  N  D  I  E  281 

**Not  it!"  and  with  inconsequent  and  mocking  lips  laughed 
the  idea  to  scorn  as  the  carrier's  daughter  had  done,  and  the 
carrier's  wife  before  her,  and  as  all  other  girls  did  whose  dis- 
claimers wrapped  up  in  transparent  tissue  the  secret  aspirations 
of  their  youth  and  sex.  But  Time  was,  and  had  been;  and 
Time,  such  as  Time  had  been,  might  never  be  again.  Blanche 
said  no  word,  and  the  chance  familiar  saying  of  the  carrier's 
wife — a  saying  that  had  been  laughingly  leveled  at  her  in  this 
very  kitchen,  and  as  laughingly  repudiated,  occasions  without 
end — stabbed  through  her  bosom  now  with  such  a  pang  as  a 
knife  might  have  caused  her,  leaving  a  trembling  and  sick 
weakness  behind. 

"Aye !  Ye  needn't  deny  it.  Ada  did  same.  So  did  I  when 
I  was  Ada's  age.  We  shall  be  getting  ti  know  summut  before 
si  long."  And  by  a  significant  transition  the  carrier's  wife 
inquired  after  the  necktie.     "How's  crocheting  going  on?" 

''All  right." 

The  carrier's  wife  bestowed  a  glance  upon  Blanche's  empty 
and  listless  hands.     "You  ain't  brought  it  wi'  ye  then?" 

Blanche's  voice — for  her  voice  seemed  now  an  organ  detached 
from  herself,  uttering  words  and  sentences  in  which  she  had  no 
part— said  "No." 

"En't  ye  gotten  it  done,  yet?" 

Blanche's  voice  said,  "Not  yet.'* 

The  carrier's  wife  reminded  her  of  her  promise.  "Think 
on  you  said  you'd  let  me  see  scarf  before  it  goes.  I  thought 
maybe  you'd  brought  it  wi'  ye  this  afternoon  when  I  seed  ye 
come  ti  door." 

Blanche's  voice  murmured  "Oh  .  .  ."  But  for  the  apathy 
with  which  the  interjection  left  her  lips  it  might  (for  what  it 
cost  her)  have  been  a  cry  of  pain.  The  carrier's  wife,  fitting  a 
paste  lid  to  a  pie-dish  lined  with  segments  of  apple,  and  paring 
off  the  superfluous  edging  with  deft  strokes  of  a  much  worn 
knife,  caught  the  curious  intonation  and  turned  with  quick 
inquiry  to  the  seated  figure  by  the  door. 


282  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Why  .  ,  ,  what's  amiss  wl'  ye,  Blanche?" 

Once  more  her  words  stabbed  through  Blanche's  bosom, 
bringing  on  the  trembling  and  the  sick  weakness.  Her  startled 
fears,  roused  to  denial  of  themselves  by  the  question,  and  the 
unbearable  look  of  scrutiny  in  the  carrier's  wife's  eyes,  strove 
to  say  "Nothing"  with  assurance  and  conviction,  but  the  voice 
issued  from  a  remoter  part  of  her  than  before.  Between  herself 
and  her  anxieties  and  this  organ  for  their  denial  a  great  gulf 
seemed  widening.  And  the  kitchen  was  hot — horribly,  suffo- 
catingly hot. 

"Nothing?'*  The  carrier's  wife,  with  the  pie-dish  poised 
on  the  extended  finger-tips  of  her  left  hand  and  the  worn  knife 
upheld  in  her  floury  right  fist,  dwelt  dubiously  on  the  word, 
persevering  in  her  gaze  of  scrutiny.  The  look  at  any  other 
time  would  have  been  of  motherly  solicitude  itself,  but  now  it 
reflected  all  the  horrors  in  Blanche's  own  bosom.  It  was  an 
appalling,  a  horrifying,  a  heart-sickening  and  ominous  gaze, 
staring  forth  apprehension  and  blank  dismay;  a  gaze  that 
Blanche  felt  the  impulse  to  repel  with  her  two  hands  as  she 
might  have  fended  off  an  apparition,  with  the  cry,  "Don't  look 
at  me  like  that.  What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for? 
Don't!     Don't!'* 

"You  don't  look  very  grand,*'  the  carrier's  wife  incautiously 
said,  for  of  all  forms  of  incautiousness  the  most  fatal  is  to 
lend  confirmation  to  the  misgivings  of  the  sick.  "My  word, 
you  don't  an'  all,  noo  I  come  ti  tek  notice.  A's  sure!  You 
en't  gotten  a  scrap  o'  color  i'  your  cheek.  Have  you  been  over- 
setting yoursen  i'  sun?  .  .  .  Lawks,  lass!  You  don't  mean  ti 
faint!     Sure-lyl" 


F  O  N  D  I  E  283 


XIII 


FOR  with  this  dire  corroboration  of  the  fears  that  had 
besieged  her  bosom  all  this  while,  Blanche's  undermined 
fortitude  fell  at  last.  She  tried  to  give  denial  to  the 
charge,  but  that  surging  gulf  of  sickness,  long  threatening, 
swept  tumultuously  in  between  volition  and  her  voice,  and  left 
her  tongueless.  The  pie-dish,  elevated  on  the  carrier's  wife's 
upspread  fingers  like  some  monstrance  containing  a  terrific  Host, 
and  the  knife  she  held  in  her  whitened  fists,  blade  upward, 
seemed  like  the  very  insignia  of  the  ritual  of  Doom.  One  mo- 
ment only  these  things  showed  themselves  thus  in  preternatural 
keenness  to  the  figure  by  the  door.  The  next,  a  ghastly  gray 
aureole  obliterated  the  pie-dish  and  the  knife  and  all  objects 
more  dimly  seen  beyond,  filling  the  kitchen  with  a  dense  and 
deathlike  fog  that  quenched  her  eyes  and  poured  into  her  ears 
with  a  devouring  and  oceanic  roar. 

For  a  century  she  was  submerged  beneath  an  unfathomable 
tide  of  darkness;  rocked  this  way  and  that  by  the  vast  swells 
of  a  confused  and  troubled  sea  of  thought,  never  calming  to 
expression,  but  vexed  and  vague — a  seething  oblivion  in  which 
was  no  repose.  Then  the  measured  hammering  of  a  great  clock, 
whose  titanic  tick-tack  struck  with  reiterated  persistence  upon 
her  brain,  brought  her  back  to  the  consciousness  so  summarily 
quitted.  For  all  that  a  century  had  elapsed  since  she  sank 
beneath  the  waters  of  noisy  oblivion,  she  awoke — when  they 
subsided — to  find  herself  in  the  same  chair.  The  same  sunlight, 
undisturbed,  fell  diagonally  through  the  open  doorway  across 
the  fiber  mat  to  the  corner  of  her  chair.  The  same  flies  buzzed ; 
the  same  flames  leaped  up  from  the  red  grate  with  fiendish 
elasticity,  and  lost  themselves  in  the  velvet  profundity  of  the 
spacious  flue.  Nothing  had  changed,  save  that  the  relentless 
pendulum  skipped  back  from  her  brain  to  the  ponderous  eight- 
day  clock  as  her  eyes  let  in  the  sunlight  and  her  ears  external 
19 


284  F  O  N  D  I  E 

sounds,  and  tick-tacked  there  with  leisured  impartiality  and 
detachment.  The  knife  and  pie-dish,  too,  were  on  the  table, 
and  the  carrier's  wife,  on  her  knees  upon  the  red-tiled  floor, 
rubbed  Blanche's  two  limp  hands  with  her  own  two  robust 
and  floury  members. 

It  was  true,  then!  Yes.  It  was  true.  God  help  her,  it 
was  true.  The  hot  kitchen,  the  flaming  fire,  the  pancheon 
on  the  fender;  the  icy,  deathlike  sweat  that  the  fog  had  left 
upon  her  brow;  the  strenuous,  floury  hands  seeking  to  clap 
animation  into  her  own;  the  eyes  of  the  carrier's  wife  fixed 
vigilantly  upon  hers — all  these  and  the  frustrated  sinking  of 
that  blest  momentary  hope  within  her  deluded  bosom  told  her 
that  it  was  true.  She  was  Blanche,  the  Vicar's  daughter. 
These  agonized  thinkings  were  no  dream ;  no  insubstantial  night- 
mare to  be  blown  aside  with  the  breath  of  grateful  and  in- 
credible relief.  They  were  herself,  her  very  self.  Thus  she 
was  ever  awakening,  even  in  her  wakeful  moments,  from  some 
instantaneous  dream  of  unreality,  to  relapse  with  a  groan  of 
the  heart  upon  the  pallet  of  naked,  shameful  fact. 

For  awhile,  taking  refuge  in  dissimulation,  she  suffered  the 
chafing  hands  to  carry  on  their  work,  and  the  solicitous  lips 
to  exhort  her.  It  was  easier,  simpler  to  sit  still,  without  speech 
or  conscious  look,  and  feel  these  energetic  efforts  expended  for 
her  faculties'  recall ;  hear  herself  called  on  by  name  and  suppli- 
cation; to  be  told  that  the  carrier's  wife  was  "only  me,"  and 
didn't  Blanche  know  her?  and  "My  w^ord,  she'd  been  as  near 
off  as  could  be!  and  Just  sit  up  with  herself  for  a  minute 
w^hile  the  ministrant  had  time  to  draw  her  a  drink  of  water. 
Anon,  after  a  brief  eclipse  of  the  doorway  sunlight  and  the 
urgent  rattle  of  a  pump  handle,  the  cold  wet  rim  of  a  dripping 
tumbler  was  pressed  to  her  lips,  and  she  heard  herself  bidden  to 
"tek  a  good  sup  o'  this."  She  sipped  and  turned  away  her 
head,  but  the  insistent  tumbler  followed  her  rejective  mouth 
and  pressed  its  chill  wet  lip  against  her  own,  and  once  more  she 
sipped  and  shook  her  head,  and  so  after  this  manner  for  some 


F  O  N  D  I  E  28s 

time.  Then,  a  sudden  furious  clamor  coming  from  the  oven 
and  steam  bursting  out  on  all  sides  of  the  oven  door,  the  tumbler 
withdrew  incontinently  to  the  table,  and  the  carrier's  wife, 
crying  "Gracious!  What's  I  thinking  on?"  possessed  herself 
of  a  dish-cloth  and  ran  to  the  scene  of  disturbance,  where  she 
wrought  with  the  zeal  of  a  fireman  amid  great  clouds  of  smoke 
and  vapor,  snatching  brown  stew-pots  and  bubbling  dishes  from 
danger  with  as  much  desperation  as  if  they  had  been  human 
lives.  Finally,  the  uproar  quelled,  she  laid  the  dish-cloth  down 
and  resumed  solicitude  for  her  visitor,  whose  fixed  and  dis- 
interested eyes  had  watched  the  fireside  commotion  as  from 
another  world — a  world  of  trouble  so  vast  and  so  remote  that 
troubles  such  as  these  lost  all  proportion. 

Whatever  had  Blanche  been  thinking  of  to  be  took,  all  sud- 
den, like  that  ?  Why !  It  was  not  like  Blanche  to  faint !  Good 
gracious!  She  had  never  known  Blanche  to  faint!  Whatever 
was  Blanche  thinking  of?  But  weather  was  oversetting  for 
time  o'  year.  Sun  that  hot,  and  kitchen  that  warm.  More 
like  summer  than  Martinmas.  .  .  .  And  then,  maybe,  it  was 
a  day  Blanche  oughtn't  to  be  doing  a  deal  of  anything  at  all 
by  rights?  Was  it?  It  had  used  to  be  same  wi'  Ada  before 
she  got  engaged,  but  she  was  a  lot  stronger  noo.  "Nay!  .  .  . 
Surely  ti  goodness,  lass!    Whatever  i'  name  o'  fortune  .  .  .?" 

For  the  Blanche  that  had  not  been  like  Blanche  to  faint 
surprised  the  carrier's  wife  all  suddenly  by  being  so  utterly  un- 
like Blanche  as  to  burst  into  tears.  The  despairing  spirit  of  dis- 
simulation, borne  to  ground  by  its  own  burden,  surrendered  un- 
conditionally to  sobs.  Of  what  use  was  secrecy  without  solace  ; 
concealment  bought  at  the  price  of  suffering;  victory  whose 
very  crown  was  thorns?  Such  victory  as  this  had  been  her 
daily  and  her  nightly  portion.  The  victory  of  such  secrecy, 
endured  these  many  weeks,  had  sunk  its  acids  through  her 
bosom  and  corroded  all  her  being.  She  had  been  led  forth 
this  day  to  make  an  end  of  it:  to  seek  some  partner  for  her 
trouble;  some  ear  into  which  confession  might  be  poured;  some 


286  F  O  N  D  I  E 

friendly  midwife  of  sorrow  with  whose  aid  her  soul  might  be 
delivered  of  this  dreadful  secret  that  oppressed  it. 


XIV 


THOSE  incomprehensible  tears  of  her  own  sex  that  melt 
the   other   sex   to   softness   and   straightway   bring   its 
strength   to    naught   stir    the   shrewdest   curiosities   of 
woman  in  a  moment. 

For  awhile,  standing  in  the  attitude  in  which  Blanche's  out- 
burst had  surprised  her,  with  her  floury  hands  extended  and  her 
mouth  commiserately  open,  the  carrier's  wife  studied  the  weeper 
in  the  chair.  Her  eye,  filled  with  doubts  and  perplexities  and 
anticipations,  traveled  over  the  girl's  figure  from  head  to  toe — 
taking  stock  of  the  shaking  hat  and  hair  and  the  convulsed 
shoulders,  and  the  large  tears  oozing  through  the  wet  spread 
fingers  to  fall  impotently  on  the  limp  lap,  and  the  sober  stock- 
ings terminating  in  those  inert  and  lifeless  shoes.  Trouble 
of  this  sort  and  in  this  guise  was  not  unfamiliar  to  her  experience. 
Her  own  family  had  furnished  instances  in  her  youthful  daj's. 
When  girls  wept  inconsolably  without  a  cause  it  was  time — 
experience  had  taught  her — for  mothers  to  tremble  and  bid 
their  too  complaisant  eye  remark  the  thing,  by  right,  it  should 
have  seen  before;  for  by  such  a  route  came  trouble  as  a  rule. 
But  because  suspicion  (knowing  itself  at  heart  a  base  quality) 
shirks  always  to  declare  itself,  and  is  unwilling  to  admit  that  it 
suspects;  and  because  this  was  Blanche,  and  the  Vicar's  daughter, 
and  such  dire  happenings  as  she  had  in  mind  were  generally 
reserved  by  a  selective  Providence  for  humbler  victims,  she 
assum.ed  her  cheerfullest  manner  of  bustling  sympathy  and  voiced 
only  the  least  consequential  of  the  surmises  at  work  within ;  bid- 
ding Blanche  to  "Come  now,  and  don't  cry!  .  .  .  Has  father 
been  scolding  ye?    Is  it  planner?" 


F  O  N  D  I  E  s87 

No  answer  came  from  the  lips  part  hidden  behind  the  two 
close-pressed  hands. 

"Diz  he  want  ye  tl  play  orgin  i'  choch?  He  dizn't?"  Why! 
Maybe  Blanche  had  had  a  bit  of  a  quarrel  wi'  somebody?  She 
hadn't? 

She  laid  her  hand — still  floury,  albeit  she  first  wiped  it  with 
her  apron — upon  the  girl's  averted  forehead,  that  even  in  that 
place  of  sun  and  flame  and  fiery  oven  felt  burning  hot,  and  said: 
"What's  amiss  wi'  ye,  Blanche?  Come,  lass!  .  .  .  Surely  you 
can  tell  me!"*  and  made  attempt  to  lift  the  weeping  face.  "See! 
Let's  look  at  ye.  .  .  ."  But  the  face,  defended  by  the  out- 
spread fingers,  resisted  this  effort  to  raise  it,  struggling  against 
inspection.  To  one  of  the  carrier's  wife's  experience  such  a 
sign  of  utter  inconsolability  was  ominous.  She  relinquished  the 
forehead  with  an  air  of  bewilderment  and,  being  driven  back 
upon  the  last  and  largest  and  most  assertive  of  all  her  suspicions, 
declared  she  didn't  know  what  to  think,  "It  fair  caps  me!" 
she  afl^rmed.     "I'se  bet  ti  know  what's  matter  wi'  ye." 

".  .  .  If  it  had  been  some  lasses,"  she  said,  and  kept  watch 
upon  each  tear  that  issued  through  the  weeper's  fingers,  "... 
one  mud  'a  been  inclined  ti  fancy  something. 

".  .  .  Blanche?" 

She  dropped  her  voice  to  utter  the  name,  and  the  name  thus 
awfully  uttered  fell  upon  the  owner  of  it  more  charged  with 
horror  and  with  doom  than  the  loudest  trump  of  wrath  from 
heaven. 

This  was  the  moment  that  her  terror  had  been  apprehending 
all  this  tortured  while,  between  the  sickening  desire  to  protract 
and  the  desperate  impulse  to  precipitate — the  inevitable  moment 
when,  assisted  by  some  such  commiserative  ministration  as  the 
mother  of  her  erstwhile  friend  lent  her,  she  must  be  delivered 
of  her  secret  at  last,  and  give  girth  to  the  monstrous  offspring 
of  her  fears. 

And  in  that  tremendous  moment  her  secret  was  born. 

All  this  despairing  equivocation  with  her  own  self,  this  tern- 


288  F  O  N  D  I  E 

porizing  with  her  own  terrors,  was  at  an  end  forever.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  she  was  altogether  changed.  Those  resid- 
uary parts  of  her  that  had  sustained  the  illusion  of  her  old  self 
against  the  new  fell  away  in  sediment  of  shame  and  grief.  She 
was  becoming  a  thing  of  pity  and  of  scorn.  And  she  wept  over 
herself  thus  fallen:  wept  to  know  herself  the  object  of  that  hor- 
rible commiseration  in  the  altered  voice  of  the  carrier's  wife ;  the 
object  of  that  awful  pity  in  her  changed  eye.  In  the  first  terrific 
pang  of  parturition,  when  the  secret  passed  from  her  in  this 
outburst  of  scalding  tears,  it  was  as  though  all  her  life  were 
about  to  pass  with  it.  If  death  were  by  the  way  of  weeping 
she  could  have  died  that  instant,  for  the  desire  of  death  was  in 
her  heart,  and  all  her  soul  cried  "Let  me  die." 

Yet  out  of  that  first  passionate  desire  for  death  a  not  less 
passionate  desire  for  life  was  reborn  within  her:  a  despairing 
hunger  for  sunlight  and  for  happiness;  a  yearning  to  live;  to 
be  Blanche  once  more.  Not  the  irresponsible,  thoughtless,  care- 
less Blanche,  but  a  better,  wiser,  happier,  more  considerate  and 
contented  Blanche.  Oh,  how  she  would  practice  the  piano 
henceforth!  How  she  would  play  the  organ;  visit  the  sick! 
How  she  would  strive  to  please  her  father — to  do  all  that  his 
wisdom  demanded  of  her;  to  subject  herself  in  all  things 
to  his  will;  seek  all  her  happiness  in  his!  .  .  .  And  her 
tears,  set  free  afresh  by  poignant  self -commiseration,  flowed 
again. 

The  carrier's  wife  said,  "Come!  Come!"  She  wasn't  to 
cry  now!  She  wasn't  to  cry.  Crying  wouldn't  do  anybody 
any  good.  And  perhaps  things  wasn't  so  bad  as  the  weeper 
apprehended.  ...  It  mightn't  be  too  late  still.  Was  the 
weeper  quite  sure,  for  instance  .  .  . 

Aye !  By  the  outgush  of  the  weeper's  tears  and  the  despairing 
gesture  of  her  head,  the  weeper  was  sure  enough. 

".  .  .  Even  married  women  can  be  mistook  at  times,"  the 
carrier's  wife  comforted  her.  "I'se  been  mistook  myself — an' 
doctor  was  an'  all.     Maybe  it's  nobbut  a  chill.     You've  been 


F  O  N  D  I  E  289 

setting  on  damp  grass.  When  did  ye  .  .  .  How  long  have  ye 
known  ?" 

With  the  tears  still  sliding  down  her  wet  cheeks,  that  her 
two  hands  made  now  no  further  effort  to  stanch  or  intercept, 
Blanche — using  her  voice  for  the  first  time — said  she  didn't 
know — "A  month  .  .  ." 

The  carrier's  wife,  repeating  the  term  of  time  with  dismay 
in  her  looks  and  voice,  exclaimed:  "Good  gracious!  Never  a 
month!  You  don't  mean  to  say  that,  surely.  .  .  .  Why  ever 
i'  name  o'  fortune  didn't  ye  speak  before?  You  ought  to  'a 
done.     You  ought  tiv  a  telt  somebody  at  once." 

Blanche's  tears,  helplessly  streaming,  admitted  the  awful  jus- 
tice of  the  counsel. 

"Who  was  there  to  tell?    I  couldn't  tell  father." 

"You  mud  'a  telt  me/*  the  carrier's  wife  suggested. 

".  .  .  What  good  would  it  have  done?" 

"Why  ...  it  mud  *a  eased  your  mind,"  the  carrier's  wife 
decided.  "An*  who  knows  but  what  we  might  'a  helped  ye? 
Have  ye  done  onnything  at  all?" 

Blanche  said,  "I  took  something.     It  wasn't  any  good." 

"Took  something!"  The  carrier's  wife  showed  a  grave  face 
at  the  suggestion.  "Lawks,  lass!  But  you  shouldn't  ought 
tiv  a  done  that.    You  don't  know  what  might  have  happened 

ye." 

"I  didn't  care." 

"What  did  ye  tek?" 

"It  was  in  the  Sunday  Sacred.  It's  there  every  week.  They 
said  it  never  failed.  .  .  ."  Her  tears  flower  faster  again  at  the 
remembrance,  resuffering  all  the  tortures  of  that  dread  time — 
now  incredibly  remote — when  the  first  forebodings  of  her  awful 
circumstance  swept  over  her.  It  had  come  in  church.  It  had 
come  during  the  chanting  of  the  Evening  Psalms,  as  though  on 
a  sudden  Almighty  God  had  wrung  her  by  the  heart  and  filled 
all  her  body  with  trembling  sickness  and  dismay.  Such  trem- 
bling sickness  and  such  dismay  as  she  had  never  known  before. 


290  F  O  N  D  I  E 

That  night  she  had  laughed  no  more  than  was  requisite  for  her 
credit's  sake — and  to  keep  people  from  suspecting.  She  had 
even  sung  the  hymns.  She  had  intoned  Amens.  She  had  lis- 
tened depairingly  to  each  word  of  her  father's  sermon  and 
tried  her  uttermost  to  like  and  understand  it.  She  had  done 
everything  in  her  power  to  make  friends  with  the  Almighty. 
She  had  prayed;  prayers  full  of  promises  and  resolutions,  be- 
seeching that  this  thing  should  not  be.  And  comfort  had 
seemed  to  come  to  her  by  prayer,  and  a  consoling  voice  from 
Heaven  had  seemed  to  speak  to  her,  saying  she  was  a  silly  fool, 
and  what  was  there  to  be  frightened  of  and  why  should  any- 
thing happen  her  more  than  anybody  else?  And  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  her  relief  and  her  thankfulness  to  Heaven  she  had 
laughed  again.  But  even  before  her  father  could  pronounce 
the  Benediction  Heaven  withdrew  this  brief-sent  consolation, 
and  all  her  fears  descended  in  a  flight:  horrible,  torturing  fears 
that  could  be  confided  to  nobody;  fears  that  even  she  had  to 
make  profession  of  disbelieving,  lest  her  credence  might  cause 
them  to  be  true. 

And  then,  when  it  seemed  too  plain  that  God  would  not  grant 
her  prayer  and  Heaven  had  no  intent  to  help  her,  she  had  be- 
stirred herself  desperately  on  her  own  behalf.  But  the  hour  was 
gone  by.  Too  much  precious  and  irrecoverable  time  had  been 
expended  in  prayer  and  vain  appeals.  She  had  reposed  too 
great  a  confidence  in  Heaven.  And  as  she  wept  now  upon  the 
carrier's  chair,  the  sense  of  injustice  permeated  her  tears  and 
made  them  bitter.  Why  had  she — of  all  girls  in  Whiwle — 
been  thus  selected  by  the  wrath  of  God  to  sustain  this  ruthless 
judgment?  Why  should  she,  of  all  girls,  have  been  picked  out 
by  His  unjust  forefinger  to  suffer  this  decree  of  shame  and  deg- 
radation ?  If  God  w^ere  just,  if  God  were  fair,  God  ought  not 
to  punish  her  for  what  so  many  did  without  compunction  or 
penalty.  Either  he  should  punish  all  alike  or  none.  And  when 
the  carrier's  wife,  sympathetically  rebukeful,  asked  her,  "What- 
ever were  ye  thinking  on,  Blanche  ?    You  ought  tiv  'a  took  more 


FOND  IE  291 

care  than  that,  child.  You  ought  tiv  *a  thought  on  what  mud 
come  on  it!"  she  was  stung  to  tearful  remonstrance,  asking: 
"Why  should  it  be  me?  .  .  .  Other  girls  have  done  the  same 
.  .  .  lots  of  them.  I  know  they  have.  And  nothing  happens 
them" 

The  carrier's  wife,  shocked  by  this  sweeping  accusation  by 
reason  of  the  measure  of  truth  she  knew  to  be  resident  in  it, 
palliated  her  inner  concurrence  by  a  voice  of  gentle  chiding, 
that  bade  Blanche  "Wisht,  Blanche!  Wisht!  You  shouldn't 
talk  like  that.     You  shouldn't  say  syke  things,  child." 

Blanche  said:  "I  don't  care  how  I  talk  now.  Besides,  it's 
true." 

The  carrier's  wife,  as  an  alternative  to  argument  with  all  its 
pitfalls,  said  (though  less  assuredly),  "Wisht,  Blanche!"  again; 
and  "Surely  .  .  .  surely!"  The  remembrance  that  this  was 
her  own  daughter's  one-time  confidante  and  friend  imposed,  be- 
side, a  wise  discretion  on  her. 

Blanche  reiterated :  "They  do.  Lots  of  times.  And  nothing 
happens.  And  now  .  .  .  because  it's  me  .  .  ."  She  dashed 
away  the  tears  from  either  cheek  with  reckless  knuckles.  ".  .  . 
I  never  did  before.  Never.  And  it  isn't  because  I  hadn't  the 
chance.  I  had.  Plenty.  One  of  them  was  the  Merensea 
curate.  But  I  always  said  'No;  not  that.  .  .  .'  And  I  never 
did.  I  was  a  long  time  before  I  would.  Nearly  a  week.  I 
said,  'What  if  anything  was  to  happen!'  And  he  said  nothing 
would  happen.  He  said  he  was  sure.  He  gave  me  his  word. 
It  was  a  promise." 

The  carrier's  wife,  shaking  her  head  with  sage  commiseration, 
said:  "You  shouldn't  'a  gien  'way,  lass.  It's  what  they  always 
say.  It's  same  wi'  'em  all — they'd  promise  anything  at  a  time 
like  that.    That's  how  lasses  comes  ti  ruin. 

".  .  .  Who  is  it,  Blanche?" 

Blanche  said:  "You  know." 

"You  don't  mean  .  .  .  Not  Fondie?" 

"No.     Not  him.  ...  The  other." 


292  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Which  other?"  asked  the  carrier's  wife — for,  truth  to  tell, 
there  had  been  so  many  of  them.  "You  don't  mean  .  .  ." 
her  credulity  faltered  even  at  the  surmise,  ".  .  .  not  young 
Squire  fro'  Mersham,  surely!" 

Once  upon  a  time — and  that  not  so  many  weeks  ago — 
Blanche's  pride  would  have  uttered  a  protesting  "Why  not?" 
But  now  so  utterly  was  the  old  pride  broken  that  she  only  wept 
admission.  And  when  pride  heard  the  carrier's  wife  make  those 
subdued  noises  expressive  of  deep  concern  for  a  calamity  be- 
yond redress,  begging,  "Don't  say  it's  him,  lass.  Surely!  It's 
a  bad  job.  I'd  liever  it  had  been  Fondie  or  anybody  as  soon 
as  him!"  pride  only  wept  the  faster,  realizing  full  well  with- 
out the  deepened  tone  of  pity  in  the  speaker's  voice  how  bad  a 
job  it  was. 

".  .  .  Diz  he  know?" 

The  question  framed  already  on  the  lips  of  the  carrier's  wife 
had  been,  "What  diz  he  say?"  but  the  avowal  of  those  rein- 
forced tears  made  the  query  superfluous.  She  asked  instead, 
"Nay!  ye  don't  mean.  .  .  .  Hasn't  he  answered  ye?  .  .  .  Sure- 
ly, surely !    When  did  ye  write  tiv  him  ?" 

Pride,  broken  to  the  point  that  has  no  further  reticence, 
replied :  "A  fortnight  since." 

"He  ought  tiv  'a  answered  by  noo,"  the  carrier's  wife  re- 
flected helplessly.  ".  .  .  Time  he's  had.  He  oughtn't  tiv  'a 
kept  a  lass  waiting  i'  that  fashion.  He  mud  'a  known  she'd 
be  anxious  ti  hear  something  frev  him."  She  dropped  her 
voice  once  again  to  Its  most  ominous  level  of  Inquiry: 

"Diz  father  know?     Hev  ye  gotten  him  telt  yet?" 

The  question  elicited  a  fresh  flood  of  tears. 

"Father  ought  ti  know  .  .  ."  the  voice  of  the  carrier's  wife 
decided,  mercilessly  pitiful.     "He'll  'a  ti  be  telt,  Blanche." 

Blanche,  laboring  to  resist  this  awful  dictate  of  destiny, 
ejected  a  desperate  "No!"  She  knew  the  negative  meant  noth- 
ing; she  knew  It  spared  her  no  part  of  that  dread  moment, 
inevitable  as  death,  when  the  truth  to  which  she  clung  with 


F  O  N  D  I  E  893 

such  tenacious  fingers  must  be  torn  from  her  grasp  and  given 
to  the  world.  Even  her  father  in  the  end  must  know.  Time 
and  time  again  she  had  wakened  with  a  start  from  broken  and 
tormented  slumber,  and  always,  after  the  first  cruel  realization 
of  the  facts  of  self  and  circumstance,  the  cry  of  her  distress  had 
been : 

"What  will  father  say?    Oh,  what  will  father  say?" 

Out  of  the  profounds  of  her  distress  she  cried  to  the  carrier's 
wife: 

"I  can't  tell  him.    I  won't  tell  him." 

The  carrier's  wife,  administering  her  dreadful  counsel  with  a 
grave  face  as  if  it  had  been  poison,  said: 

"You'd  best  tell  him,  Blanche.  Sooner  he's  telt  and  better. 
He'll  'a  ti  know  some  time,  lass,  like  everybody  else.  You  can't 
keep  it  frev  him  much  longer."  She  took  stock  of  the  girl's 
figure  again,  and  asked:  "When  div  ye  expect  .  .  .?" 

Blanche,  putting  her  hands  before  her  face,  exclaimed,  "I 
don't  know !  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  as  if  she  would  shut  out  the 
horror  of  the  prospect. 

"Why,  ye'll  know  tiv  a  week  or  two  .  .  ."  the  carrier's  wife 
replied.  "When  .  .  .  when  was  it,  lass?  It  couldn't  be  ni 
later  nor  October.    That's  when  he  went  away." 

Blanche  murmured,  "September  .  .  ." 

The  carrier's  wife  began  to  tell  off  the  months  of  doom  upon 
her  fingers:  ".  .  .  October,  November,  December.  That's 
three.  January,  February,  March  .  .  .  six.  April  .  .  .  May 
.  .  ."  She  got  no  further  in  her  dreadful  reckoning,  for 
Blanche's  terrors,  outstripping  these  fingered  calculations,  burst 
in  upon  her  with  a  tortured,  supplicative,  "Don't!" 

The  carrier's  wife  took  her  thumb  from  the  outspread  fingers 
and  shook  her  motherly  head  with  mournful  sagacity. 

"Aye,  my  lass!"  she  told  the  weeper.  "It's  ower  late  ti 
say  'Don't'  now.  'Don't'  wean't  alter  things.  You  ought 
tiv  'a  said  'Don't'  sooner.    You'd  best  get  used  tiv  it." 

With  sudden  desperation  Blanche  declared:  "I  won't.     So 


294 


FONDIE 


there.  People  shan't  says  things  about  me.  I'll  kill  myself." 
"Oh,  wisht,  wisht!"  the  carrier's  wife  admonished  her, 
shocked  by  these  violent  consequences  of  her  rebuke.  "That's 
not  way  to  talk,  Blanche.  You  mustn't  think  syke  wicked 
things.  It  only  makes  matters  worse.  Other  lasses  has  had 
ti  go  through  it." 

Despair  protested:  "Not  Vicars'  daughters." 
But  by  consideration  of  the  hard  cases  of  sisters  in  misfortune 
she  coaxed  the  eye  of  trouble  to  perceive  her  own  distress  in 
a  more  reassuring  perspective.  It  was  true  she  was  not  the 
only  one.  Others  had  gone  through  this  trial  besides  herself. 
It  consoled  her  to  count  their  local  number  with  the  aid  of  the 
carrier's  wife,  and  find  how  numerous  they  were.  What  she 
suffered  from  was,  after  all,  a  common  enough  complaint.  Hun- 
dreds had  gone  through  it — some  of  them  twice.  Hundreds 
were  going  through  it — unknown  to  her  and  she  to  them — in 
this  very  hour.  Hundreds  would  go  through  it.  Who  knows? 
There  was  time  even  for  Ada  to  be  among  their  number.  It 
was  no  more  than  measles  or  scarlet  fever,  that  some  contracted 
and  some  escaped — not  by  reason  of  anything  worse  or  better 
in  their  own  natures,  but  by  the  force  of  mere  circumstance  and 
adverse  fortune.  And,  as  the  carrier's  wife  pointed  out  for 
her  encouragement  and  comfort,  it  was  no  use  looking  trouble 
in  the  face.  She  had  time  before  her.  Months  of  time.  Nearly 
a  whole  year  of  time.  Oh,  how  precious  time  was  become  to 
her  all  at  once !  Time's  meanest  particles  were  worth  the  most 
infinite  care  and  preservation  now.  Her  life  hung  on  them. 
If  she  could  make  moments  into  months  they  would  not  be  too 
long  for  her.  All  her  aim  henceforth  should  be  to  intrigue 
Time  to  tarry;  to  delay  the  striking  of  that  evil  hour. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  295 


XV 


OH,  that  unutterable  afternoon — that  even  to  think  of 
hereafter  made  the  soul  sick! 
It  was  a  Thursday-,  the  day  before  Hunmouth  mar- 
ket. The  carrier — who  had  been  out  with  his  light  cart  and 
galloway,  collecting  parcels  for  the  early  morning's  journey  on 
the  morrow — cam.e  into  the  kitchen  as  she  sat  wet-eyed  and 
tear-bedabbled.  They  heard  him  drive  through  the  gatestead 
into  the  yard,  where  the  covered  rully  stood  in  process  of  loading, 
with  the  decrepit  ten-spell  ladder  propped  precariously  against 
its  side — up  which,  and  down  again,  Blanche  had  scrambled 
times  without  number.  The  carrier's  wife  cried,  "Here's  mas- 
ter !"  as  his  footstep  rang  upon  the  cobbles,  and  Blanche's  heart 
stopped  beating  in  order  that  distress  might  listen  the  keener. 

For  each  new  footstep  brought  now  its  own  terror;  each 
face  and  voice  and  pair  of  eyes  its  own  ordeal.  Never  had  she 
been  frightened  of  the  carrier  before,  but  now  his  footsteps 
dismayed  her. 

The  doorway  darkened  with  his  presence;  his  tall  bulk  and 
broad  shoulders  shut  out  the  fast-fading  sunlight.  He  came 
into  the  kitchen  with  his  customary  **Noo,  missus!"  that  at 
another  time  than  this  would  have  seemed  full  of  kindness  and 
comfortable  welcome;  a  familiar  prelude  to  genial  words  and 
laughter.  But  now  welcome  and  kindliness  were  out  of  place 
in  this  kitchen,  and  laughter  fled.  Even  his  wife  acknowledged 
the  greeting  with  a  subdued  "Noo,  Robert,"  in  a  voice  that 
sought  to  impose  its  lowered  tone  restrain  fully  upon  his  own. 
It  offered  still  another  confirmation  to  the  tear-stained  figure 
of  the  validity  of  her  distress.  Voices  had  to  be  lowered  for 
her  now.  Her  trouble  was  no  imaginary  thing,  but  terrible 
and  real.  And  her  tears  made  ready  to  flow  again  before  the 
newcomer,  whose  presence  revived  her  old  shames  and  appre- 
hensions. 


296  F  O  N  D  I  E 

The  carrier  had  already  plunged  into  a  query,  "DIz  thoo 
know  .  .  .?"  when  his  wife's  pursed  lips  and  altered  voice 
brought  his  geniality  to  a  standstill  with  a  "Why?  .  .  .  What? 
.  .  ."  He  turned  perplexed  eyes  in  his  vicinity  to  discover  the 
cause  of  this  sudden  depression  in  domestic  tone,  and  beheld 
the  bowled  figure  of  Trouble  upon  the  chair  by  his  elbow.  Not 
that  he  recognized  Trouble  all  at  once  by  sight,  even  then, 
for  Blanche's  was  the  last  semblance  one  would  have  looked  for 
trouble  to  assume.  Blanche  was  such  a  synonym  for  careless- 
ness and  laughter  that  his  countenance — momentarily  depressed 
out  of  instinctive  deference  to  his  wife's  face  and  voice,  and 
his  own  perplexity — put  on  its  natural  cheerfulness  again, 
and  he  had  addressed  the  figure  wn'th  all  his  wonted  geniality 
before  his  eye,  reconciled  to  the  subdued  light  of  the  kitchen, 
took  in  the  significance  of  the  bowed  head,  and  the  limp  hands 
loosely  holding  the  humid  handkerchief  between  them,  and 
the  gleam  of  tear-blashed  cheeks,  with  the  question,  "Nay  .  .  . 
what's  amiss  wi'  you,  Blanche?'*  And  then,  since  Blanche  made 
no  answer,  he  turned  back  upon  the  first  cause  of  his  per- 
plexity and  repeated  the  question  to  his  wife,  "What's  amiss 
wi'  lass?"  at  the  same  time  that  his  wife  interposed  her  "Hush 
wi'  thee,  Robert!     Can't  thoo  see?" 

"Can't  thoo  see?"  the  carrier  echoed.  "I  can  see  lass  is  i' 
tears,  if  that's  w^hat  thoo  means." 

"Nay,  then,  hod  thy  noise,"  his  wife  exhorted  him.  "Thoo's 
n'  occasion  ti  mek  things  worse  than  thej^  are."  She  added, 
".  .  ,  Poor  lass!"  partly  to  let  him  know  that  Blanche  was 
a  true  object  of  commiseration ;  partly,  too,  to  whet  his  appetite 
for  the  secret  at  present  withheld  from  him.  He  said :  "Warse 
than  they  are!  How  bad  are  they,  then?  What's  amiss  wi' 
her?'* 

"Dean't  ask." 

"Why,  I  wean't  ask  if  thoo  says  I'se  not  ti  ask,"  the  carrier 
complied.  "I  can  do  wi'oot  askin  so  far  as  that  gans  .  .  ." 
and  appeared  so  completely  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  behest 


F  O  N  D  I  E  297 

uncombated  that  his  wife — fearful  of  being  taken  too  literally 
at  her  word,  and  so  forfeiting  for  the  time  her  chance  of  the  dis- 
closure she  was  burning  to  make — declared:  ''Why  ,  .  . 
thoo'U  'a  ti  know  some  time,  I  expect.  It's  no  use  me  keeping 
it  back  fro'  thee."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "Blanche  is  i' 
trouble." 

'T  trouble!" 

The  mere  sound  of  that  familiar  phrase  set  Blanche's  tears 
once  more  in  motion,  quickening  their  flow. 

Oh,  it  was  unthinkable  1  All  this  was  some  monstrous  dream, 
from  which  she  would  awake  presently  with  the  power  to  laugh 
at  it. 

The  carrier  wasted  no  words  of  superfluous  pity  upon  her; 
he  let  fall  no  sentiments  of  shocked  commiseration.  On  the 
contrary,  the  intelligence  lighted  an  interest  In  his  face  that 
had  not  been  there  before;  an  interest  so  keen  as  to  sharpen 
his  features  almost  to  the  point  of  a  smile.  He  said  to  his  wife, 
*'She  is?     Dis  thoo  mean  .  .  .?" 

"Aye!"  his  wife  assured  him  tersely.  "...  Thoo  needn't 
stare  at  her,  Robert." 

The  carrier,  without  abating  his  gaze,  asked,  "Who  is  star- 
ing?" in  a  tone  of  unperturbed  remonstrance,  and  continued  to 
look  Blanche  affably  up  and  down  as  before.  He  even  drew  out 
the  blackened,  half-smoked  pipe  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and 
put  its  stem  complacently  between  his  lips,  striking  a  match 
upon  his  thigh  the  while,  as  if  the  situation  merited  some  such 
comfortable  adjunct  to  its  enjoyment.  "Why!  What's  thoo 
been  doing  on,  Blanche?" 

His  wife,  jealous  of  the  rights  of  her  sex  to  interrogate  at  a 
time  like  this,  and  slightly  resentful  of  her  husband's  bluntly 
masculine  Intrusion,  admonished  him:  "Let  lass  alone!  Do. 
Dean't  ask  syke  questions.  Thoo  sees  she's  i'  no  fittle  ti  answer. 
Poor  lass,  poor  lass!" 

"Who  Is  it?"  the  carrier  demanded,  and  the  weeper  held 
her  sobs  in  abeyance  for  a  moment  to  hear  the  answer  and  his 


298  F  O  N  D  I  E 

reception  of  it.  After  all,  pride  had  the  gratification  of  know- 
ing its  downfall  due  to  a  gentleman.  Her  trouble  owed  nothing 
to  any  farmer's  son  with  whom,  perchance,  a  dozen  of  her  girl 
acquaintances  had  exchanged  kisses  and  escaped  scot-free,  but 
to  a  D'Alroy,  who  had  singled  her  out  from  them  all  for  this 
special  signal  of  his  favor.  Even  her  father — though  she  shiv- 
ered always  at  the  thought  of  him — could  say  the  less  to  her 
for  this.  A  D'Alroy  was  a  D'Alroy.  The  carrier,  puffing 
stolidly  at  his  pipe  with  his  hands  upon  his  hips,  said,  "Why! 
I  mud  'a  known,  wi'oot  asking,  it  was  him."  No  more  than 
that. 

"Why  .  .  ."  the  carrier  decided,  still  sucking  at  his  wheezy 
pipe,  "he'll  'a  ti  do  summut,  missus!" 

The  declaration  reassured  her.  It  was  true.  He  would  have 
to  do  something.  "Lass  wean't  'a  ti  bear  it  all  hersen."  No, 
no.  She  would  not  have  to  bear  it  all  herself.  He  would  have 
to  take  his  share.  He  would  have  to  do  something.  She  listened 
eagerly  for  some  augumentation  of  com.fort  from  the  carrier's 
wife,  but  none  came;  only  the  sound  of  scraped  pie-dishes  and 
an  interrogative  "What'll  he  'a  ti  do,  Robert?"  whereat  hope 
sickened  again  and  her  hearing  turned  apprehensively  to  the 
carrier  once  more,  expectant  and  fearful. 

"Why,  he'll  'a  ti  do  summut,  hooivver!"  the  carrier  said. 
"He  can't  leave  lass  i'  lurch.     It's  as  mich  his  doing  as  hers.'* 

It  was  true.  It  was  as  much  his  doing  as  hers.  More,  indeed. 
Much  more.  She  had  never  wanted  .  .  .  She  had  said  no. 
He  had  led  her  into  it.  It  was  his  fault.  Oh,  it  was  all  his 
fault;  his  fault. 

"...  I  doot  he  wean't  marry  her,"  the  carrier's  wife  pre- 
dicted in  a  lowered  voice  intended  for  her  husband's  ear  only, 
but  the  quickened  ear  of  Trouble  intercepted  the  remark,  and 
Trouble's  tears  acknowledged  and  confirmed  it.  He  would  not 
marry  her.  No.  Being  a  D'Alroy  that  form  of  redress,  at  least, 
was  debarred  to  him  and  shut  to  her.  Not  that  she  had  ever 
looked  for  marriage,  or  thought  of  it.     No  word  of  marriage 


F  O  N  D  I  E  299 

had  ever  passed  between  them;  no  word  of  love  even.  Their 
attachment  had  been  but  physical;  their  affection  only  make- 
believe — to  color  fact,  and  suffuse  reality  with  romance.  Only 
that  insatiable  appetite  for  life  had  really  led  her  wrong;  that 
passion  for  physical  vitality;  the  same  fierce  desire  to  do  some- 
thing with  her  body,  to  put  it  to  some  purpose,  that  Deacon 
Smeddy  and  others  of  the  pious  experienced  in  regard  to  the 
soul;  not  merely  to  possess  it,  but  to  be  sensible  of  its  pos- 
session and  quicken  it  into  an  ardent  instrument  of  life. 

No.  He  would  not  marry  her.  Even  if  her  folly  in  this 
miserable  hour  had  dared  to  hope  for  such  a  sequel  to  her  fears 
and  outlet  to  her  difficulties,  the  voice  of  the  carrier's  wife  must 
have  convinced  her.  Such  a  voice  could  not  err.  Conviction 
reigned  in  it.  The  carrier's  wife  uttered  what  she  knew.  Rea- 
son made  her  his  mouthpiece,  and  the  carrier  scarcely  contested 
her  words. 

"He's  boon  ti  do  summut  for  lass,  hooivver!"  he  decided. 
''He'll  'a  ti  contribute  ti  maintenance.  Rowbotham  lass  gets 
five  shilling  a  week  wi'  yon  bairn  of  hers.  Blanche  falls  it  get 
as  mich — and  more.  Syke  a  fellow  as  him  ought  ti  gie  ten — 
an'  not  feel  it." 

She  cried:  "I  don't  want  his  money.  I  won't  have  it.  I 
won't  touch  it." 

Such  unnatural  sentiments  shocked  both  hearers.  The  car- 
rier's wife  interposed  her  restraining  "Wisht  .  .  .  wisht!  Ye 
mun't  say  so,  Blanche.  It's  bad  ti  tell  yet  what  you'll  want, 
or  what  you'll  tek!     Money'U  come  in  useful.  .  .  .'* 

"Aye.  Tek  all  you  can,  Blanche,"  the  carrier  concurred. 
"You've  a  right  tiv  as  mich  as  you  can  get  oot'n  him.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  where  the  sunlight  had  been  in  the  doorway  was  a 
grayness;  and  the  window-square,  too,  turned  to  an  ashen  gray; 
and  the  carrier's  wife  said  days  drew  in  sharp  now,  and  dew 
was  rising;  and  the  carrier — his  person  merged  by  this  time 
in  the  gathering  obscurity  of  the  fireside  corner — rattled  his 
pipe  upon  the  hob  and  said,  "Why  ...  I  mun  away  again, 
20 


300  F  O  N  D  I  E 

missus!"  His  work  wasn't  done,  by  a  deal.  He'd  to  gan  as 
far  as  Baulk  Farm  and  back  yet. 

He  crossed  the  kitchen  floor  with  a  certain  ostentatious  noisi- 
ness of  footstep — withal  deliberate — as  though  trying  to  con- 
vey to  the  visitor  by  this  means  the  goodwill  and  sympathy  that 
his  tongue  found  difficult  to  utter.  By  the  doorstep  he  paused, 
rubbing  his  unshaven  chin  and  regarding  the  outer  world  with 
an  air  of  baflled  magnanimity — finally  giving  utterance  to  the 
hope  that  Blanche  would  cheer  up,  lass,  and  be  i'  better  fittle 
after  a  bit.  With  which — though  there  seemed  still  some  fur- 
ther wishes  unsatisfied  of  utterance — he  took  his  leave. 

His  departure  roused  sudden  apprehension  in  the  weeper's 
bosom.  She  raised  her  head  and  adjured  the  carrier's  wife  in 
an  awestruck  and  suffocated  voice: 

"He  won't  tell  anybody?" 

"Not  him!"  the  carrier's  wife  tersely  assured  her.  "He'll 
'a  more  sense." 

"Tell  him  not  to.     He  mustn't.     Stop  him." 

The  carrier's  wife  cried  "Robert!"  His  voice  from  the  far 
side  of  the  yard,  mufl^ed  by  the  mist  and  distance,  responded: 

"What  noo,  missus?" 

She  went  to  the  doorway  and  said:  "Thoo'Il  mind  an'  tell 
neabody!" 

"Tell  neabody  what?" 

"Why  .  .  .  thoo  knaws.    Aboot  Blanche,  yonder." 

He  answered:  "Nay.  Thoo  needn't  trouble  thysen,  missus. 
I  s'll  'a  summut  else  ti  think  on."  But  his  answering  voice 
lacked  the  ring  of  sincerity  that  the  ear  of  Trouble  listened  for 
and  needed.  And  so  the  carrier's  wife  (the  weeper  fancied) 
thought  in  turn,  for  after  hesitating  a  moment  she  called 
"Robert!  .  .  ."  again,  and  Trouble  hoped  to  hear  the  warning 
more  emphatically  imposed.  But  when  the  carrier  responded 
with  a  briefer  "Aye!"  she  only  said,  "If  thoo  sees  Sarah  thoo 
mun  tell  her  Ada's  i'  'Unmouth  while  Sattidy." 

Only  that.    Trouble's  aifairs  were  mixed  up  with  the  affairs 


F  O  N  D  I  E  301 

of  all  the  world,  like  the  flies  and  currants  in  Harker's  tea- 
cakes.     They  had  not  a  sacred  isolation  of  their  own. 


XVI 


RAPIDLY  the  November  twilight  deepened;  the  dark- 
ness in  the  kitchen  grew.  The  cat  took  up  her  con- 
tented place  in  the  fendernook  by  the  oven  door,  up- 
turning a  rapt  and  hypocritical  nose  to  the  warm  odors  that 
escaped  from  the  simmering  shelves  above.  The  carrier's  wife, 
stooping  to  the  fireplace  for  the  intermittent  light  that  spurted 
from  the  coals,  cried,  gracious  her!     It  was  tea-time  already. 

"Will  father  be  expecting  ye?" 

The  question  brought  the  sitter  from  the  apathy  with  a  start 
of  terror  and  resistance. 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  care  .  .  .  what  he's  doing." 

"Diz  father  know  where  you  are?" 

"No." 

"Who's  getting  tea  ready  for  him  ?" 

"Nobody." 

"Where's  Alice?" 

"Gone." 

"Lawks!    You  don't  say!    When  did  she  leave?" 

"Last  week." 

The  carrier's  wife  hesitated,  holding  an  extra  cup  and  saucer 
in  irresolute  hands. 

"I  doot  I  oughtn't  ti  keep  ye,"  she  said,  "if  there's  only 
you  ti  get  father  his  tea.  It's  close  on  five.  Clock'll  strike 
in  a  minute." 

Blanche  exclaimed:  "I  don't  care.  ...  I  won't  go  back.  I 
can't." 

The  carrier's  wife  viewed  her  visitor  with  mild  perplexity. 

"But  you'll  be  forced  ti  go  back  some  time,  lass.  You  can't 
set  there  all  night.    Don't  vex  father,  Blanche.    Try  and  keep 


302  F  O  N  D  I  E 

him  in  a  good  temper  noo.  You'd  best  run  your  ways  home 
and  get  tea  fit." 

Blanche  said  nothing,  but  all  her  attitude  expressed  the 
dogged  refusal  of  despair. 

The  carrier's  wife,  still  balancing  the  cup  and  saucer,  as 
though  in  appeal  to  Blanche's  better  instincts,  said:  "It's  not 
that  I  begrudge  ye  a  cup  o'  tea,  lass.  Only  I  don't  want  father 
setting  blame  o'  me,  and  telling  me  I  ought  tiv  a'  knawn  better. 
.  .  .  You've  got  ti  face  him,  child.  Sooner  it's  over  and  done 
wi',  the  better.  Gan  back  an'  get  him  telt.  Tell  him  all. 
You'll  feel  a  deal  comfortabler  when  he  knaws." 

Blanche,  tremulous  about  the  lips,  and  already  shaken  anew 
with  the  disturbance  of  violent  emotion,  burst  out  at  length: 

"How  can  I  go  back?  .  .  .  How  can  I  tell  him  .  .  .  Him?" 
Tears,  less  of  distress  than  of  mortification  and  resistance,  shone 
upon  her  lashes  once  more.  "I  don't  care.  ...  I  won't  go 
back." 

"Lawks,  lass!    What'll  happen  if  you  don't?" 

"I  don't  care  what  happens." 

"Father'U  come  and  fetch  you,  most  like." 

"Let  him  fetch  me." 

The  carrier's  wife  regarded  her  guest  with  silent  scrutiny 
for  awhile.    Then,  going  nearer  to  the  seated  figure,  she  asked : 

"Shall  I  gan  back  wi'  ye,  Blanche?" 

Blanche  made  no  sign. 

"Shall  I,  lass?     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

Yes.  It  was  what  she  meant,  though  no  word  or  motion 
admitted  it.  But  her  very  immobility  under  the  question  ex- 
pressed her  surrender  to  it.  All  her  state,  now — even  in  re- 
sistance— ^was  passive.  Others  must  pilot  her  through  the 
threatening  sea  of  trouble  that  her  own  initiative  had  no  heart 
to  navigate.    Her  only  part  was  to  suffer  and  submit. 


EONDIE  303 


XVII 

THE  carrier's  wife  pushed  her  cup  and  saucer  aside  and 
said  **Noo!"  and  Blanche's  heart  sank  at  the  sound  of 
It — for  despair  Is  rarely  so  desperate  but  It  clings  blindly 
to  something  that  It  cannot  comprehend  or  specify ;  which  Is  not 
hope — for  hope,  it  knows,  Is  hopeless — but  a  visionary  hope  of 
hope ;  a  protraction  of  Its  wretchedness. 

But  still  there  was  a  little  further  respite  for  her  fears.  The 
carrier's  wife  must  make  all  ready  on  the  table  for  her  husband's 
tea:  place  the  pot  upon  the  oven  to  brew  against  his  return; 
provide  for  the  safety  of  her  cookery ;  don  her  mantle ;  pin  her 
hat.  The  dog,  liberated  from  his  chain  to  protect  the  sanctity 
of  the  hearth  and  home,  bounded  Into  the  kitchen  with  vehement 
barks  of  joy,  brushing  the  cat  out  of  her  nook  in  the  fender; 
and  the  cat,  spitting  horrible  expletives,  sped  out  into  the  night 
through  the  open  door.  Then,  the  lamp  cautiously  lowered, 
and  a  final  look  bestowed  upon  the  kitchen — that  elicited  a 
responsive  thudding  of  energetic  self-assertion  from  the  dog's 
tail — the  carrier's  wife  said,  "Come  then,  Blanche,"  and 
Blanche  came,  white-faced  and  wordless. 

All  the  world  had  changed  since  she  took  her  leave  of  it  and 
walked  Into  the  carrier's  kitchen  this  afternoon.  Then  the 
secret  she  bore  was  locked  in  her  own  bosom;  she  had  been 
mistress,  at  least,  of  the  factors  of  her  own  torment.  But 
now  she  was  delivered  of  It.  It  was  no  longer  her  own.  It 
was  everywhere,  on  all  sides  of  her.  The  gray  dusk  visible  be- 
yond the  threshold  of  the  kitchen,  seemed,  to  her  fears,  like 
some  Infinite  spirit,  silent,  immobile,  and  ominous ;  it  might  have 
been  her  own  secret,  revealed  at  last  in  its  immeasurable  pro- 
portions. To  the  eye  of  fear,  the  night  was  not  half  dark 
enough.  From  the*  wicket-gate  leading  into  the  roadway  she 
shrank  back  as  if  an  asp  had  stung  her: 

"What's  that!" 


304  F  O  N  D  I  E 

It  was  but  a  dog's  bark  in  the  village,  mistaken  by  her  terror 
for  a  voice.  An  awful  voice;  curt  and  peremptory  and  hor- 
rible. The  carrier's  wife,  startled  by  the  intensity  of  the  girl's 
alarm,  cried,  "Lawks,  lass!"  and  reassured  her:  "It's  nowt. 
You  hadn't  need  be  frightened.  I'se  wi'  ye."  Blanche  be- 
sought her:  "Let's  walk  quick.  Don't  stop  to  talk  to  anybody. 
Say  you're  in  a  hurry."  "Why,  I'll  walk  as  quick  as  my  legs 
and  this  heavy  cape'll  let  me,"  the  carrier's  wife  agreed,  "but 
I'se  not  si  used  ti  walking  nooadays  as  I  was."  Nevertheless, 
in  disregard  of  her  own  caution,  at  every  sound  or  sight  of 
human  life  that  should  have  hastened  her,  Blanche  hesitated  in 
her  step  as  if — for  little  more — she  would  have  turned  and  fled. 
And  the  silence  between  them  added  to  the  terror  of  the  walk, 
and  rendered  it  shameful  and  ignominious.  Blanche  had  lost 
all  power  of  dissimulation.  No  words — save  words  of  startled 
concern  or  sudden  anxiety — came  to  her  bleached  lips.  Even 
her  smile  was  gone,  leaving  the  dry  white  teeth  bared  in  an 
expression  of  hollow-cheeked  and  pinched  concern  that  shunned 
the  light  and  the  stare  of  human  eyes.  Wherever  a  lamp 
gleamed  from  a  naked  window  or  imprinted  the  pattern  of  the 
curtain  and  window  plant  upon  the  drawn  blind  Blanche  drew 
the  carrier's  wife  and  her  own  countenance  away  from  the 
threatening  beam  of  it.  The  clash  of  buckets  and  the  inter- 
change of  voices  and  all  the  well-known  sounds  of  life  and 
industry  contributory  to  that  evening  hour  fell  like  menaces 
upon  her  hearing.  For  her  this  walk  led  through  a  world  of 
enemies  and  foes.  With  each  step  taken  her  soul  was  in  dan- 
ger. She  feared  Fondle  Bassiemoor,  she  feared  the  young 
gentleman  of  the  aud  hoose.  There  was  no  face,  no  voice,  no 
footstep  in  Whiwle  that  did  not  invest  itself  with  all  that 
was  most  to  be  feared.  One  or  two  voices  did,  indeed,  hail 
them  as  they  passed;  but  these  were  docile,  tractable  voices 
that  a  pleasant  greeting  pacified  and  silenced.  They  came 
through  the  village  without  encounter,  and  drew  up  at  the 
vicarage  gate  at  last. 


FONDIE  30s 

This  was  the  gate.  This  was  the  hedge.  This  was  the 
house  bej^ond.  .  .  .  Seen  now  in  the  semi-obscurity  of  the 
November  haze  that  magnified  its  contours  and  muffled  the 
shapes  of  the  surrounding  trees  to  nebulous  immensity,  this 
home  of  hers  assumed  a  drear  and  desolating  semblance;  the 
very  habitation  of  despair.  It  was  as  though  already  the  house 
had  learned  the  secret  Blanche  brought  with  her,  and  stood 
plunged  in  stupef\'ing  gloom;  indifferent  to  the  deepening 
shades  that  invested  it,  and  the  night  that  gathered. 

The  carrier's  wife  wiped  her  face  on  a  corner  of  her  mantle. 
*'My  wod!  It's  close,  lass.  My  forehead's  all  of  a  trickle." 
She,  too,  like  the  girl  by  her  side,  hesitated  in  face  of  the  last 
brief  stage  of  their  journey,  glad  of  some  pretext  for  a  moment's 
respite.  That  quality  of  impulsiveness  which  makes  woman 
capable  of  undertaking  at  short  notice  missions  that  man's  more 
deliberate  judgment  instructs  him  to  decline  had  brought  her 
here  against  the  verdict  of  discretion. 

Nevertheless,  as  she  stood  before  the  vicarage  the  temerity 
of  her  enterprise  was  borne  in  upon  her.  In  her  intimacy  with 
Blanche  and  the  zeal  of  her  charitable  curiosity  she  had  over- 
looked how  little  the  Vicar's  self  was  really  known  to  her.  She 
felt  herself  now,  at  the  Vicar's  door,  with  too  little  standing 
to  justify  this  interference.  He  might  even  confound  her 
with  the  cause  of  his  daughter's  trouble,  and  involve  her  in 
the  general  condemnation  pronounced  by  his  wrath,  saying 
she  had  too  often  taken  sides  with  Blanche  against  his  authority 
in  the  past,  and  connived  at  her  derelictions  of  the  duty  his 
parental  discipline  had  imposed  on  her.  And  to  some  extent — 
though  not  to  this  extreme  degree — her  conscience  wavered 
under  the  indictment.  She  had  not  always  held  the  Vicar  up 
to  Blanche  with  that  respect  she  should  have  done,  or  inculcated 
the  principles  of  obedience  when  Blanche  brought  the  laughter 
of  defiance  and  rebellion  into  her  kitchen.  "Why,"  she  said 
to  herself,  in  heart,  "...  it  wasn't  for  me  ti  meddle  betwixt 
Vicar  and  his  daughter.     He'd  mebbe  'a  blamed  me  if  I  had 


3o6  F  O  N  D  I  E 

'a  done,  and  telt  me  ti  mind  my  own  business.  And  If  he  says 
aught  tl  me  noo,"  she  consoled  herself,  "I  can  tell  him:  'Why, 
I  nobbut  came  because  Blanche  wanted  me  to' — and  I  can  gan 
back  an'  all  If  it  dizn't  suit  him."  With  which,  breaking  the 
silence,  she  ventured  to  suggest,  "Well!  .  .  .  Shall  we  gan 
I  'oose,  Blanche?"  A  thought  of  some  comfort  came  to  her, 
and  lent  more  assurance  to  her  tone:  "Mebbe  father's  not  at 
home,  lass.     Hoose  looks  dark." 

But  the  comfort  was  of  brief  duration,  for  the  moment  they 
passed  through  the  gate  Blanche  said,  *'Hush!  Stop!  There 
he  Is!  .  .  ."  with  such  Insistence  that  the  carrier's  wife  ex- 
claimed, "Lawks,  lass!  What  a  start  you  gied  me.  That's 
second  time.  You  shouldn't!  Whereabouts  Is  he?"  Blanche 
whispered,  "In  sitting-room!"  and  the  carrier's  wife  acknowl- 
edged, "Aye,  he  is  an'  all!"  In  a  voice  reciprocally  hushed. 

No  blinds  were  drawn,  and  through  the  bleak  bow-window 
the  figure  of  Blanche's  father  could  be  seen,  carrying  a  lighted 
candle  in  his  hand.  The  solitary,  naked  flame  seemed  to  illu- 
minate only  the  desolation  of  the  room  and  render  Its  forlorn- 
ness  visible.  Now  the  Vicar's  bulk  occluded  It,  and  the  shadow 
of  his  magnified  head  and  shoulders  blurred  half  the  window; 
now  it  lit  up  his  beard  and  profile  with  its  feeble  ray  as  he  bore 
it  to  and  fro — presenting  to  the  watchers  the  Illusion  of  two 
men  in  motion,  one  of  them  being  of  gigantic  stature  and 
proportions,  who  made  the  second  seem  pigmy  by  comparison. 

The  carrier's  wife  asked:  "What's  he  doing?  Can  you  see, 
Blanche?" 

Blanche  said :  "Laying  tea-things." 

"Tea-things?     Lawks,  lass!     Hasn't  he  had  tea  yet?" 

"He  can't  have." 

"We  ought  tiv  'a  come  sooner,"  tHe  carrier's  wife  reflected. 
"I  wanted  ye  to.  It's  late  for  father's  tea.  I'se  jealous  he'll 
be  vexed.  .  .  .  Come,  Blanche!  We  mun't  keep  him  waiting 
onny  longer." 

Blanche  answered  with  alarm,  "Not  bv  front  door.     Come 


FONDIE 


307 


round  by  kitchen."  To  the  tormented  conscience  of  Trouble 
this  more  devious  way  seemed,  in  some  curious  wise,  an  easier 
approach;  or  rather,  an  evasion  of  the  difficult)-.  The  front 
door  presented  itself  to  Blanche  as  an  impassable  factor;  an 
avenue  too  formidable  for  distress.  But  the  kitchen  door,  when 
they  stole  round  to  it,  proved  as  formidable  as  that  they  had 
avoided.  Nay,  more  formidable  Indeed — for  all  that  it  stood 
open  as  though  expectant  of  her.  Its  very  expectancy  looked 
terrifying.  The  sight  of  the  kitchen  walls,  grimacing  horribly 
in  the  firelight,  made  all  her  resolutions  falter.  She  murmured 
in  a  voice  of  abject  miser}-,  "I  can't!  ...  I  can't!" 

"Nay!"  the  carrier's  wife  exhorted  her,  "but  you  can, 
lass,  nobbut  you  try.  Hod  up,  noo.  It's  bad  enough,  I 
know — dean't  mek  warse  on  it.  Gan  your  waj's  in.  Call 
Tather.'  " 

Blanche  horror-struck  and  Impotent,  said:  "No,  no.  .  .  . 
You!     You  go  first." 

"Why?  Kitchen's  not  mine  tl  walk  In  and  oot  on  as  I 
please,"  the  carrier's  wife  objected.  "What'U  father  say  If  he 
finds  me  stood  I*  'oose  as  though  It  belonged  me?  Shall  I  gle  a 
rap  at  door  wi'  my  knuckles  .  .  .  just  tl  let  him  know  we're 
here?" 

Blanche  pulled  the  hand  away  in  sudden  alarm.  "Don't! 
Hush!     He'll  hear  you." 

"Why,  we  s'll  'a  tl  do  summut,  hoolvver,"  the  carrier's  wife 
decided.  "See  ye.  Kettle's  aboil.  Let's  walk  in,  lass.  Will 
you  follow  me  if  I  gan  first?" 

Blanche  conceded  an  uncertain  "Yes." 

"Why,  then,  come  on  wi'  ye,"  the  carrier's  wife  exclaimed. 
"Be  brave.  Mek  a  noise  wi'  your  feet."  Perhaps  a  vague 
misgiving  as  to  the  girl's  courage  under  fire  crossed  her  faith 
m  her,  for  she  added,  "Here!  Gle  us  your  hand  ..."  and 
drew  her  by  this  reluctant  and  trepid  member  into  the  firelit 
kitchen. 

Even  by  the  intermittent  light  of  the  flickering  fire  (replen- 


3o8  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Ished  recently,  she  saw,  with  newspaper  and  kindling)  her 
domestic  eyes  were  quick  to  note  the  disorder  characterizing  the 
Vicar's  kitchen,  and  the  gravity  of  her  mission  was  for  awhile 
lost  sight  of  as  she  gazed  in  consternation  at  the  pile  of  un- 
washed crockery  on  the  central  table. 

"Goodness,  Blanche!  What's  them?  Not  dinner  pots  .  .  . 
surely!" 

Blanche,  sensible  of  the  latent  rebuke,  even  through  the 
many  folds  of  her  distress,  responded  breathlessly:  "I  hadn't 
time.  ...  I  came  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I'd  got  sided.  .  .  . 
Besides,  I  couldn't." 

At  another  moment,  perhaps,  less  urgent  than  this,  the  car- 
rier's wife  might  have  been  unable  to  resist  the  placid  impulse 
for  kindly  expostulation,  for  the  kitchen  was  with  her  a  sacred 
obligation,  brooking  neglect  less  credibly  than  prayer;  but 
with  the  wish  upon  her  lips — as  though  some  intimation  of  their 
presence  had  reached  him,  they  heard  the  Vicar  from  the  pro- 
founds of  the  darkened  house  cry,  "Blanche!  ..." 

At  the  sound  of  her  father's  voice  Blanche  made  a  sudden 
movement  of  alarm,  as  though  almost  she  had  the  panic  thought 
to  flee,  but  the  carrier's  wife  caught  her  by  the  arm,  saying, 
"Nay!  Ye  mun't  gan.  Ye  mun't  leave  me  wi'  myself.  Speak 
tiv  him.  Say  'Father.'  Say  it  nice.  Tell  him  I'se  wi'  you  i' 
kitchen." 

The  Vicar's  voice,  more  peremptorily,  repeated,  "Blanche," 
as  though  challenging  the  silence;  "Is  that  you?" 

"Aye,  it's  you!"  the  carrier's  wife  prompted  her.  "Tell 
him  it's  j^ou — and  me  an'  all.  Sharp.  He'll  be  vexed  if  you 
don't  answer  him." 

But  Blanche's  bleached  and  flinching  lips  refused  their  office. 
For  in  what  wise  could  they  address  this  wronged  and  outraged 
parent? 

And  again  the  name  was  spoken. 

The  carrier's  wife  uttered  an  incredulous  "Goodness,  lass! 
.  .  .  Answer  him.     Do.     Whatever  will  he  think  o'  meT — 


I 


F  O  N  D  I  E  309 

and  in  the  same  breath,  with  a  sudden  gasp  of  apprehension, 
"He's  coming  an'  all !     Here  ...  let  me  be  poking  fire." 

Bearing  in  his  hand  the  candle  that  had  lit  his  profile  and  cast 
his  portentous  shadow  over  the  walls  and  windows  of  the  sitting- 
room,  the  Vicar  came  down  the  passage  to  the  kitchen,  slurring 
the  heels  of  his  loose,  worn  slippers  over  the  stone  flags.  He 
entered  tentatively,  peering  over  the  candle's  flame  into  the 
space  beyond  as  though  expectant  of  nothing  more  than  the 
confirmation  of  his  deluded  senses — the  firelit  kitchen  destitute 
of  his  daughter.  The  sight  of  her  figure  on  the  extreme  fringe 
of  wavering  light  emitted  by  his  unsteady  candle  startled  him. 
He  said,  "Who's  there?"  and  "Blanche!  ..."  and  then,  dis- 
cerning that  this  silent  figure  on  which  his  eye  rested  was  in 
reality  his  daughter,  his  reassurance  grew  to  indignation. 
"Why  did  you  not  answer  me  when  I  called  ?  Where  have  you 
been  ?  Do  you  know  the  time  ?  ...  Is  this  the  way  you  treat 
your  father?" 

He  stopped  at  that  abruptly,  because — for  the  first  time 
then — he  became  aware  of  the  second  figure  in  the  kitchen, 
seeking  to  insinuate  her  presence  by  an  apologetic  usage  of  the 
kitchen  poker,  that  should  (at  the  same  time)  be  vigorous 
enough  to  suggest  she  had  been  too  deeply  absorbed  in  this 
occupation  to  hear  the  words  of  paternal  rebuke.  The  dis- 
covery was  succeeded  by  a  moment  of  silent  constraint,  broken 
by  the  carrier's  wife,  who  said,  "It's  only  me,  sir,"  with  an 
air  of  reducing  her  intrusive  person  to  a  minimum.  In  the 
keenness  of  his  desire  to  justify  without  loss  of  time  the  mood 
which  had  governed  his  entry  into  the  kitchen,  the  Vicar  did 
not  even  stop  to  ask  what  errand  had  brought  the  carrier's 
wife  at  this  unlikely  hour  and  in  this  unlikely  way.  She  had 
come  (said  he)  at  an  unfavorable  time;  an  unfavorable  time, 
Mrs.  Wickham.  With  which  he  plunged  into  an  indictment 
of  his  daughter — the  old  familiar  indictment  of  his  daughter, 
that  the  carrier's  wife  and  all  the  parish  had  heard  before. 
From  a  long  and  tiring  round  amongst  his  parishioners  this 


310  F  O  N  D  I  E 

afternoon  he  had  returned  to  find  the  house  deserted.  No 
Alexis.  No  Blanche.  No  light.  No  sign  of  life.  No  tea 
upon  the  table.  No  fire  in  the  kitchen.  Clearly  their  return 
had  been  ill-timed.  "Aye,"  said  the  carrier's  wife  to  herself, 
"Blanche  ought  tiv  'a  come  when  I  telt  her  at  first.  This  is 
no  time  ti  tell  him  anything.  Goodness  only  knows  what 
he'll  say  noo."  If  the  Vicar's  indignation  had  been  directed 
to  this  afternoon's  offence  alone,  she  might — perhaps — have 
tried  to  mitigate  it;  pleading,  within  the  limits  of  respect,  for 
the  girl's  sake,  and  taking  upon  herself  some  measure  of  the 
culpability  for  Blanche's  late  return.  But  in  view  of  this  ap- 
palling source  of  justification  for  parental  anger  in  reserve,  she 
dared  not  try  to  stem  his  displeasure,  or  seek  appeasement  of 
a  wrath  for  whose  fires  such  fearful  fuel  was  in  store.  She,  too, 
must  be  mute  and  bide  the  Vicar's  time,  like  Blanche.  On  the 
days  gone  by  this  outburst  on  her  father's  part  would  have  lent 
instant  extenuation  to  the  girl's  fault,  hardening  rebellion  in 
her  bosom  and  expelling  the  last  wavering  impulse  to  repentance. 
But  now  the  power  to  hate  or  scorn  was  gone.  Even  with 
his  anger  she  had  no  quarrel.  If  he  had  struck  her,  beaten  her, 
abused  her,  she  would  have  submitted  to  the  castigation  with- 
out a  cry — so  great  was  her  consciousness  of  the  wrong  inflicted 
on  him.  For  those  who,  like  herself,  can  make  no  restitution 
have  only  their  suffering  to  offer.  In  the  olden  days  of  blessed 
rebellion  always  there  had  been  the  figment  of  her  independence 
to  draw  on  as  a  last  resource.  As  other  daughters  earned  their 
living,  so  could  she.  But  now,  hanging  over  her  was  that  which 
brought  all  dreams  of  independence  to  naught,  and  drove  her, 
stricken,  to  this  paternal  prison  for  sanctuary  and  shelter; 
accepting  of  her  father's  charity  just  so  much  or  just  so  little 
as  he  chose  to  give.  The  blow  that  had  fallen  upon  her  would 
fall  scarcely  less  terribly  on  him.  He  would  have  to  bear  her 
shame  with  her;  taste  the  bitter  gall  of  her  disgrace;  suffer — 
who  had  not  sinned — all  that  her  waj^vardness  had  drawn  upon 
their  heads. 


FONDIE  3" 

And  realizing  this  in  that  enlightened  hour  of  sorrow  when 
all  the  soul  seems  lit  up  with  the  unbearable  searching  torches 
of  shame,  she  had  no  word  to  offer  him;  no  look  for  his  eye; 
no  posture  to  pit  against  his  anger — nothing  but  her  tears. 
As  she  had  wept  before  the  carrier's  wife,  and  as  she  had  wept 
before  the  carrier's  self,  so  now  she  wept  before  the  presence  of 
this  most  injured,  most  righteous,  most  terrifying  of  fathers. 

At  first  he  did  not  descry  her  tears — did  not  divine  that  her 
attitude  bore  any  other  significance  than  the  old  rebellion  to 
which  he  was  accustomed.  But  then,  looking  from  the  car- 
rier's wife  toward  his  daughter  with  a  gaze  of  extra  condem- 
nation that  seemed  as  if  it  came  reinforced  with  the  visitor's 
concurrence,  he  perceived  that  this  indicted  daughter  was  in 
tears. 

If  he  had  found  himself  confronted  with  an  angel  he  could 
not  have  betrayed  more  incredulous  surprise.  Such  words  of 
ostensible  severity  as  were  on  his  tongue  when  he  turned  to- 
ward her  stayed  unuttered.  For  awhile  he  could  only  stare 
over  the  dangerously  inclined  and  circling  candle — in  the  at- 
tempt to  reconcile  this  unfamiliar  manifestation  with  what  he 
knew  of  his  daughter.  Tears  had  been  the  one  token  Blanche's 
pride  had  never  yet  surrendered  to  him.  It  was  a  fact  he 
had  frequently  noted  and  deplored. 

And  these  tears  were  not  of  anger.  So  much  was  evident 
even  to  the  Vicar's  unpenetrative  faculties.  She  did  not  make 
her  weeping  the  outlet  of  a  passion  that  can  find  no  proper  vent 
in  words.  For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  Vicar  of 
Whivvle  stared  perplexed  upon  this  figure  of  a  daughter  who 
bore  no  resemblance  to  the  Blanche  he  knew.  From  her  he 
turned  in  helpless  inquiry  to  the  carrier's  wife.  "I  don't  un- 
derstand. .  .  .  What's  this?  What's  the  matter?  What  have 
I  said?  .  .  .  Stop!     Where  are  you  going?" 

For,  urged  by  a  terrific  impulse  to  escape  the  dire  conse- 
quences of  his  greater  wrath  incurred  by  the  answer  that  hung, 
overwhelming,  on  the  lips  of  the  carrier's  wife,  Blanche  swept 


312  FOND  IE 

past  him  from  the  kitchen.  She  moved  so  swiftly  that  her 
approach,  unclearly  apprehended  in  that  instant  of  perplexity 
by  the  paternal  eye,  had  the  semblance  of  an  assault.  For  one 
brief  moment,  indeed,  the  Vicar  almost  believed — incredible 
though  the  idea  appeared  upon  reflection — that  his  daughter 
was  advancing  on  him  in  a  paroxysm  of  defiant  wrath.  And 
then,  through  the  door  that  had  admitted  him,  she  swept  from 
sight  without  any  sound  save  that  of  her  own  skirts,  or  any  sign 
beyond  the  agitated  flame  of  the  candle  that  surged  and  guttered 
in  the  disturbed  air.  They  heard — both  of  them,  with  their 
faces  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  departure — the  echo  of  her 
hurrying  footsteps  over  the  flags  on  which  the  Vicar's  untidy 
slippers  had  shuflied  their  way;  and  after  a  brief  while,  betraying 
with  what  speed  she  had  fled,  the  sound  of  the  shutting  of  her 
bedroom  door.  The  Vicar  turned  to  the  carrier's  wife  with 
a  gesture  of  complete  and  justifiable  despair. 

His  own  daughter!  Mrs.  Wickham  had  seen  for  herself. 
Close  on  eighteen.  Could  not  brook  the  least  correction. 
Could  not  bear  to  be  spoken  to.  That  was  his  reward,  Mrs. 
Wickham,  for  all  the  indulgence  lavished  upon  his  family;  for 
all  the  expense  and  care  she  had  cost  him.  .  .  .  He  almost  gave 
it  up,  Mrs.  Wickham ;  he  almost  gave  it  up.  Indeed,  he  would 
have  given  it  up  years  ago  but  for  the  remembrance  of  that 
One  above  to  whom  all  must  bow.  .  .  . 

In  the  flow  of  his  aggrievement  he  scarcely  heeded  the  tenta- 
tive efforts  of  the  carrier's  wife  to  make  herself  modestly  heard, 
and  she  had  the  opportunity  to  revise  her  utterances  some  half 
a  dozen  times  before  a  vague  import  of  what  the  visitor  was 
saying  filtered  through  his  indignation  to  his  imperfect  under- 
standing at  last.  The  final  form  of  her  revision  was:  'Tse 
jealous  Blanche  has  ower  good  cause  to  fret,  sir." 

He  asked:  "What  sort  of  cause  has  her  father  then^  Mrs. 
Wickham?  You  have  seen  for  yourself,  tonight."  And  even 
when  the  carrier's  wife  found  courage  to  introduce  that  most 
portentous  and  tremendous  word  in  the  dictionary  where  the 


FONDIE  313 

destiny  of  daughters  is  concerned,  letting  her  voice  fall  over  its 
utterance,  the  better  for  his  comprehension,  he  failed  utterly  to 
grasp  the  significance  of  it,  saying,  ''Trouble  1"  as  though 
trouble  were  a  most  diurnal  and  secular  quality  to  which  by 
this  time  his  spirit  was  almost  broken.  "What  has  she  been 
doing  now,  Mrs.  Wickham?  What  new  trial  has  she  been 
bringing  on  her  father?"  For  his  understanding  soared  no 
higher  than  those  petty  troubles  and  parochial  trials  with 
which,  through  long  years,  his  household  had  familiarized  him. 
His  pious  resignation  to  his  daughter's  trouble  revealed  to  the 
carrier's  wife  so  deficient  a  conception  of  it  that,  as  a  prepara- 
tion for  the  gravity  and  magniude  of  what  she  had  to  intimate, 
she  had  recourse  to  tears.  Tears  not  only  magnified  the  mean- 
ing of  what  her  lips  shirked  to  express,  but  they  served  to 
mitigate  the  crudity  of  the  thing  said,  and  to  invoke  an  indul- 
gence for  the  temerity  of  the  speaker.  So,  with  a  corner  of 
her  mantle  applied  in  turn  to  each  distressed  and  apologetic  eye, 
she  emitted  the  tremendous  truth: 

*Tse  jealous  Blanche  is  like  to  be  a  mother,  sir." 


XVIII 

THEY  say,  when  the  terrific  truth  burst  upon  his  under- 
standing, the  Vicar  rocked  like  a  tree  with  the  axe 
laid  to  its  root. 
So  startling  sudden  was  the  change  in  him,  and  so  deep  the 
silence  that  served  to  frame  and  emphasize  it,  that  the  carrier's 
wife — shrinking,  dismayed,  from  this  consequence  of  her  inter- 
vention— cried.  Oh,  sir!  She  didn't  mean  ...  she  didn't 
think  .  .  .  she  hadn't  intended  .  .  .  and  begged  contrite  for- 
giveness for  having  spoken  suddener  than  maybe  she  ought. 

From  the  lethargy  of  an  understanding  utterly  overwhelmed 
by  the  force  of  its  too  sudden  enlightenment  the  Vicar  recov- 
ered to  a  state  of  indignant  disbelief.     He  who  taught  and 


314  FONDIE 

preached  as  a  matter  of  everyday  acceptance  the  most  prodigious 
dogmas  that  theology  can  impose  stood  aghast  and  outraged 
before  this  simple  fact  of  physiolog>%  attested  by  experience  and 
a  thousand  textbooks;  his  cheeks  on  fire,  and  puffed  and 
trembling  with  the  force  of  his  resentment.  It  was  false.  It 
was  wicked.  It  was  monstrous.  It  was  impossible.  His 
voice  mounted  with  each  word  till  it  became  his  pulpit  voice, 
all  told.  His  stature  swelled;  his  fist  rose,  emphatic  and 
threatening.  It  seemed  as  if  he  sought  to  build  out  of  the 
fabric  of  sheer  vehemence  a  wall  of  buttressed  indignation  to 
keep  this  thing  at  bay;  to  terrify  it  into  abject  silence;  to 
crush  it  down  and  tread  it  underfoot  beneath  the  heel  of 
outraged  righteousness.  Did  Mrs.  Wickham  understand  the 
gravity  of  the  charge  she  uttered?  Did  she  know  what  view 
the  law  took  of  such  an  abominable  offense?  Did  she  real- 
ize the  liability  that  the  mere  repetition  of  such  a  slander  in- 
curred ? 

Who,  he  demanded,  had  dared  to  make  such  a  scandalous 
aspersion  on  his  daughter's  character  and  honor?  His  voice 
and  attitude  held  more  in  store,  but  she  said,  "Blanche,  sir," 
and  all  the  terrifying  fabric  of  vehemence  collapsed  inconti- 
nently; the  buttressed  wall  of  indignation  fell  at  a  breath  like 
a  house  of  cards.  Stricken  silence  swallowed  up  the  pulpit 
voice.  The  Vicar's  stature  seemed  to  shrink  to  naught;  his 
puffed  cheeks  withered;  the  admonitory  fist  became  a  hand, 
and  the  hand  itself  a  mere  lifeless  member  that  shook  when  he 
held  it  in  the  air,  like  a  dead  leaf. 

".  .  .  Blanche?" 

The  carrier's  wife,  still  sniveling,  answered:  "Blanche  told 
me  herself,  sir." 

He  would  have  challenged  the  declaration  If  despair  had 
known  but  how;  for  over  his  countenance  despair  chased  in 
a  dozen  desperate  expressions  of  extremity,  seeking  how  to  rebut 
and  overcome  this  shocking  thing.  If  only  he  might  have 
sacrificed  his  daughter's  truth  to  save  her  chastity,  and  for 


FONDIE  31S 

her  honor's  sake  dishonored  her  tongue,  he  would  have  done 
so.  But  now,  alas!  when  her  untruthfulness  might  have  been 
his  stay  and  comfort  and  the  solace  of  his  declining  days,  he 
was  bitterly  unable  to  place  reliance  on  it.  The  truth  he  had 
besought  her  all  these  years  so  earnestly  to  speak  she  had  spoken 
now.  He  knew  this  was  the  truth.  Truth's  visage  was  too 
dreadful  to  be  doubted.  He  could  only  seek  consolation  in  his 
handkerchief,  and  plunge  his  face  in  its  capacious  folds,  and 
blow  into  it  tears  and  a  note  of  utter  submission  and  despair. 

".  .  .  It  has  broken  my  heart,"  he  said. 

Beneath  another  roof,  and  in  another's  instance,  he  would 
have  comforted  Trouble  with  a  text  at  least,  laying  the  balm  of 
some  soothing  Biblical  unguent  on  the  bruised  and  sorrowing 
heart.  But  here  in  his  own  kitchen,  surrounded  by  these  relics 
of  unwashed  crockery  and  these  ruins  of  his  own  peace,  he  had 
no  single  text  of  comfort  for  himself.  Not  in  all  the  pages  of 
the  Book  he  lived  by  was  there  a  text  to  cover  or  alleviate  so 
great  a  stroke  as  this.  His  thought  was  not  of  God,  but  of  his 
neighbors — than  whom  no  God  can  be  more  terrible — asking 
piteously:  "What  will  people  say?  What  will  people  think?" 
He  was  no  longer  the  vicar  of  a  parish  and  the  interpreter  of 
God's  will  to  the  afflicted,  but  a  child,  shedding  secular  tears 
for  a  secular  sorrow  and  begging  pathetically  for  secular  guid- 
ance. "What  is  to  be  done?  What  is  to  be  done?" — and 
striving  with  a  child's  instinct  to  shield  himself  from  a  culpa- 
bility of  which  he  was  not  charged,  protesting:  "They  cannot 
blame  me,  Mrs.  Wickham.  They  cannot  blame  me.  I  have 
done  my  best.  I  have  struggled  hard.  Nobody  knows  how 
hard  I  have  struggled.  Doubly  hard  since  my  dear  wife  .  .  ." 
he  made  an  efFort  to  complete  the  sentence,  ".  .  .  dear  wife 
died,"  and  suffered  himself  to  break  down  utterly  at  that, 
taking  refuge  in  this  deeper  and  more  reputable  sorrow,  and 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  handkerchief  turned  to  the  dresser. 
No  sound  of  sobbing  escaped  him.  The  shaking  of  his  head 
and  shoulders  and  the  grotesque  commotion  of  his  body  might 
21 


3i6  FONDIE 


U 


have  represented  laughter  as  forcibly  as  weeping  to  any  on- 
looker ignorant  of  the  cause  of  his  emotion.  Only  the  slam- 
ming of  the  front  door  put  an  abrupt  end  to  a  phase  of  grief 
promising  to  be  prolonged.  He  blew  his  nose  in  haste  at  that 
and  thrust  away  his  handkerchief,  saying,  "My  son!  .  .  ." 
almost  in  a  voice  of  guilty  apprehension,  and  with  an  anxious 
look  around  the  littered  kitchen.  "He  will  be  wanting  his 
tea." 

The  carrier's  wife,  quickened  by  his  anxiety  and  reminded 
of  the  compromising  evidence  of  her  own  wet  eyes,  improvised 
a  no  less  rapid  usage  of  her  mantle  and  profiEered  respectfully 
to  take  her  leave.  "Fse  jealous  I'd  best  be  going,  sir.  .  .  ." 
To  her  disappointment  he  did  not  say  her  nay.  She  lingered 
long  enough,  however,  in  the  adjustment  of  her  cape  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  entrance  of  Blanche's  elder  brother,  who,  calling 
noisily  on  Blanche's  name  and  (alternately)  on  the  name  of 
Aleck,  strode  down  the  echoing  passage  to  the  kitchen  bearing 
warfare  in  his  foot,  and  burst  upon  the  occupants  with  an 
aggressive  violence  that  only  partially  melted  in  surprise.  His 
hat  was  still  upon  his  head,  though  thrown  far  back  from  his 
brow  as  an  indication  that  its  owner  recognized  himself  within 
doors;  and  the  remnant  of  an  emaciated  cigarette  that  he  had 
lit  last  thing  before  leaving  the  compartment  at  the  Whlvvle 
Station  burned  close  to  his  teeth,  stuck  by  an  edge  of  paper  to 
his  upper  lip  and  moving  all  the  while  he  apostrophized  the 
kitchen  unaffably:  "What's  up?  Where's  Blanche?  Why 
isn't  tea  ready?     Isn't  Blanche  in?" 

The  carrier's  wife  passed  a  hurried  "Good  evening,  sir,"  to 
the  Vicar  under  her  breath,  and  took  her  leave  through  the 
kitchen  door.  No  reciprocal  "Good  evening"  echoed  her  own, 
and  she  deemed  her  departure  already  taken  and  accepted  when, 
as  though  stirred  to  motion  by  this  conclusive  act,  the  Vicar 
called  her  name  and,  pursuing  her  impulsively  to  the  kitchen 
door,  imposed  secrecy  upon  her  with  a  lowered  voice  of  urgent 
supplication. 


/ 


FOND  IE  317 


"Mrs.  Wickham  .  .  .  Mrs.  WIckham !  Not  a  word  of  this! 
I  rely  on  you.  .  .  .  Not  a  word  to  any  living  soul !" 

She  said  "Oh,  sir!"  as  if  the  very  suggestion  of  an  act  so 
foreign  to  her  nature,  and  so  remote  from  probability,  shocked 
her.     "You  may  be  sure  I  shouldn't  dream." 

He  said,  still  in  the  tremulous  and  urgent  w^hisper: 

"If  this  were  to  get  out,  you  understand!  If  it  were  to  be 
known.  ...  I  don't  know  what  would  happen.  I  daren't 
contemplate  it.     It  would  be  disastrous." 

She  acquiesced  in  a  voice  that  expressed  to  the  full  his  own 
concern;  in  a  voice  that  even  outvied  his  own  in  its  solemn 
recognition  of  the  urgent  necessity  of  silence.  He  could  trust 
her.  My  word!  Nobody  would  get  to  know  nothing  from 
her!  He  said.  Thank  her,  in  a  voice  of  broken  gratitude, 
and  she  said,  Thank  him,  in  a  voice  of  broken  reciprocity; 
and  the  Vicar  returned  into  the  littered  kitchen,  and  the  car- 
rier's wife  made  her  way  round  to  the  front  gate,  saying: 
"Why !  But  folk'U  have  to  know.  What's  use  trying  to  keep 
it  frev  'em?  They'll  have  to  know.  An'  if  I  don't  tell  'em, 
somebody  else  will — and  get  credit  on  it;  and  folk  say  it's  not 
a  bit  of  good  me  tr>ang  to  make  out  I  knew  all  time,  then, 
because  if  I  had  *a  done  I  should  'a  telt  *em.  As  though  I'd 
tell  anybody!  My  word!  Vicar  needn't  'a  ta'en  trouble  to 
come  to  door  for  that.     I'se  as  good  to  trust  to  as  him." 

And  because  the  carrier's  wife  was  so  proudly  sure  of  her 
own  probity,  and  was  so  good  to  trust  to,  she  took  advantage 
of  her  hat  and  mantle  to  call  "just  here"  and  call  "just  there" 
on  her  way  home;  and  at  each  house  she  stopped  at  her  voice 
(after  its  first  effusiveness  of  greeting)  dropped  to  a  whisper 
and  became  a  mere  simmer  of  sibilants,  wreathing  the  flesh- 
pot  of  scandal.  And  before  the  night  was  out  there  was  a 
guardian  of  Blanche's  secret  pledged  to  preserve  its  inviolability 
in  nearly  every  home  in  Whivvle.  And  the  carrier  packed  the 
secret  with  his  other  commodities — with  his  butter  and  eggs 
and  curds  and  poultry — to  traffic  along  the  road  to  Hunmouth 


3i8  FOND  IE 

on  the  morrow;  whilst  Blanche  herself  was  still  abed,  and  her 
father  turned  his  troubled  and  tormented  body  with  a  groan 
between  sheets  destitute  of  peace  or  slumber. 


XIX 


BLANCHE  lay  face  downward  on  her  bed;  face  down- 
ward on  her  bed  in  the  familiar  and  untidy  bedroom 
overlooking  Whivvle  that  had  been  her  lair  and  sanc- 
tuary all  these  long  and  latter  years.  Here,  in  this  close 
shelter  of  her  very  soul,  she  lay.  The  bed  was  still  unmade, 
tossed  and  tumbled  just  as  Trouble  had  slept  in  it  last  night, 
and  Trouble's  tired  arms  had  thrown  back  the  leaden  coverlets 
this  morning,  and  Trouble's  white  and  languid  legs  had  turned 
out  from  them  to  find  the  floor.  Responding  to  the  instinct 
that  perceived  her  bedroom  as  a  refuge,  and  associated  her 
recourse  to  it  with  thoughts  of  flight  and  need  of  sanctuary, 
her  first  act  on  entering  was  to  turn  the  lock  and  listen  pant- 
ingly  as  though  some  feared  pursuer  were  upon  her  heels. 
But  all  she  heard  was  the  accentuated  thudding  of  her  own 
heart.  What  she  had  fled  from  was  here  within  her.  No 
flight  could  outspeed,  no  craft  elude  it.  And  this  room  no 
longer  was  a  sanctuary.     She  had  come  to  it  because  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Because  of  what?  Her  own  self,  confronted  with  the 
question,  scarcely  knew.  Because  of  an  instinct  intensified  by 
long  habit — an  instinct  derived  unbrokenly  from  her  childish 
days,  that  survived  like  the  superstitions  In  a  race,  or  those 
superannuated  relics  of  religion  to  which,  even  against  its 
credence  and  its  reason,  a  people  sometimes  relapses  in  an  hour 
of  crisis  through  inability  to  act  or  think.  She  turned  the  lock, 
Indeed,  and  then — after  some  moments  of  attention  to  her 
beating  heart  that  baflled  those  other  sounds  she  strained  to 
hear — undid  It  once  again.  For  the  locked  door  pertained  to 
days  of  independence  and  rebellion  forever  done  with.       She 


FONDIE  319 

had  only  escaped  the  kitchen  and  the  carrier*s  wife,  and  the 
dismal  accusation  of  her  father's  candle,  and  come  here  where 
the  darkness  of  this  secluded  room  might  make  confession  tol- 
erable; where,  flung  upon  the  bed,  she  might  lie  inert  beneath 
his  reproaches,  and  invite  his  mercy  and  compassion.  He  would 
follow  her.  Up  the  stairway  that  her  feet  had  trod  she  would 
surely  hear  him  coming,  step  by  step;  breathing  with  labor 
and  indignation  as  he  gripped  the  banisters,  and  making  them 
creak  with  the  weight  of  his  emotion.  He  would  call  upon 
her  by  name.  He  would  come  to  this  door.  He  would 
enter  .  .  . 

So  thinking,  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  with  her  face  in 
her  folded  arms  and  her  dry  eyes  open,  staring  into  the  pillowy 
blackness  below,  pressed  so  close  that  each  time  her  eyelids 
stirred  she  could  hear  the  ruffle  of  her  lashes  on  the  calico. 
Her  posture  spoke  despair.  She  plunged  into  the  depths  of 
this  awful  trouble  as  if  it  had  been  some  silent  pond,  with 
water  black  enough  and  deep  enough  to  drown  her.  And  every 
now  and  then,  when  its  depths  would  not  retain  her,  but  suf- 
fered the  buoyancy  of  submerged  thought  to  rise  again  to  the 
surface  of  its  inky  and  unfriendly  bosom,  she  listened — oh!  she 
listened.  She  lifted  up  her  head  and  applied  her  ear  to  silence 
with  the  same  fierce  energy  with  which  an  Infant  lays  its  lips  to 
the  nipple  that  feeds  it. 

For  if  he  had  but  come  now,  her  penitence  was  ripe  for  him. 
Yes.  In  the  semi-darkness  of  this  room  she  could  have  cried, 
"Father  ,  .  .  forgive  me!"  She  could  have  wept,  to  show 
him  her  sorrow.  She  could  have  flung  herself  at  his  feet.  She 
could  have  done  all  the  things  she  had  ever  heard  of  or  read 
about  in  the  reading  that  had  been,  too  long,  her  portion.  But 
he  did  not  come. 

And  then  she  heard  the  dull  concussion  of  the  front  door, 
that  sent  a  muffled  tremor  through  the  house,  making  her  own 
door  shake  beneath  its  weight  of  pendent  skirts,  and  jingling 
the   disorderly  toilet  bottles  on   her  varnished   dressing-table. 


320  FOND  IE 

She  knew  what  the  sound  portended,  and  the  anguished  hope 
in  her  heart  died  down  to  a  chill  and  hardening  despair,  like 
the  last  embers  of  an  unreplenished  fire.  Her  brother  had 
come  back.  The  note  of  noisy  self-assertion  in  his  return 
struck:  a  blow  at  the  best  parts  in  her;  reawakened  those  re- 
membered animosities  that  had  seemed  to  lie  buried  beneath 
her  mountainous  grief.  Her  bosom  rose  in  instinctive  defiance ; 
her  heart  hardened.  Penitence,  this  moment  back  so  humble 
and  so  prostrate,  began  to  buckle  on  the  armament  of  pride. 
Even  in  this  hour  of  her  extremity  the  old  Blanche,  not  yet 
extinguished  by  the  weight  of  her  distress,  strove  to  reassert 
herself  against  the  new.  She  was  ever  a  fighter ;  let  her  fight  to 
the  last — and  fight  the  fiercer  for  these  unequal  odds.  Tears 
of  mortification  tinged  her  lashes  hotly;  tears  because  her 
father  had  too  long  delayed ;  tears  because  her  brother  was  too 
soon  returned ;  tears  of  bitterness  that  his  unwelcome  coming  had 
defrauded  her  of  the  peace  of  which  her  soul  was  in  such  need. 

And  now,  Blanche  knew,  her  ordeal  could  not  be  long  de- 
layed.    Already  her  heart  beat  faster. 

Something  atmospheric;  something  that  was  not  sound,  but 
a  stir  in  the  silence,  told  her  of  the  commotion  that  the  tidings 
had  aroused.  They  were  moving  in  the  kitchen.  Her  brother 
had  demanded,  "Where's  Blanche?"  with  new  significance  and 
purpose.  Her  father  had  said,  "Upstairs."  Her  brother,  full 
of  an  anger  that  nothing  in  his  own  course  of  conduct  justified, 
was  asking,  "What's  she  got  to  say  for  herself?"  They  were 
coming.  Yes.  She  heard  their  steps  already  encroaching  on 
the  silence  of  the  dark  and  crooked  passage  from  the  kitchen. 
Pride — mortally  wounded,  but  still  not  dead — cried:  "Lock 
the  door!  Don't  be  questioned  by  him!  He's  no  right  to 
come  and  question  you.  He  does  things  as  bad  himself.  What 
does  he  always  come  home  of  a  night  for  now?  Why  does  he 
always  go  out  as  soon  as  he's  had  his  tea?  So  as  he  can  go 
walking  with  Mi  Foster.  Everybody  knows  what  he  goes 
with  her  for." 


FONDIE  321 

Almost  she  obeyed  this  imperious  voice  of  pride,  but  even 
then  they  were  too  close  at  hand — the  stamping  boots  and 
shuffling  slippers.  She  flung  herself  back  upon  the  tumbled 
sheets  and  lay  prone  and  silent — as  though  for  all  eternity 
she  might  have  lain  like  that.  Now  they  were  at  the  door. 
She  heard  her  brother's  voice  declare,  "She's  locked  herself 
in,  /  bet!"  and  her  soul,  even  out  of  its  torment,  experienced 
the  satisfaction  of  his  error  and  the  desire  to  taunt  him:  "She 
hasn't,  then!  Clever!  She's  not  frightened  of  you  ...  if 
you  think  she  is."  Then,  as  his  hand  closed  on  the  knob  and 
found  it  unresistant,  he  corrected  the  prediction:  "No,  she 
hasn't.  She  knew  jolly  well  better.  The  door's  open.  .  .  . 
Blanche!"  And  her  father's  voice  repeated  "Blanche!"  The 
difference  in  the  two  calls  upon  her  name  was  marked.  In  her 
brother's  voice  were  injury  and  anger,  devoid  of  all  compassion. 
He  pursued  her  distress  with  no  more  compunction  than  if  it 
had  been  a  rat;  a  thing  to  hunt  down  and  destroy.  No  real 
righteousness  was  offended  in  him;  only  a  bullying  personal 
dignity  was  roused  and  cried,  protesting,  for  cruel  satisfaction 
and  for  blood.  Her  father's  voice  had  trouble  in  it;  it  shook 
with  the  weight  of  a  concern  not  wholly  wrathful.  The  sound 
of  this  voice  comforted  and  reassured  her;  the  sound  of  the 
other — smiting  all  her  trouble  in  the  face — made  Trouble's 
blood  boil  with  unbefitting  rage.  Her  father's  voice  she  could 
have  answered  in  a  still  small  voice  of  sacrifice  and  propitia- 
tion; but  not  in  the  presence  of  this  other  that  would  deem 
her  answer  given  equally  to  him,  and  even  arrogate  to  himself 
the  credit  of  compelling  it.  She  would  not  answer  him.  She 
would  not  be  compelled  by  him.  He  was  not  her  father.  She 
clenched  her  teeth  and  kept  her  silence.  He  shook  the  bed 
angrily  by  the  footrail.  "Blanche!  .  .  .  Do  you  hear?  You 
needn't  kid  like  that.  You're  not  asleep.  What's  all  this 
about?"  Her  father,  bereft  of  the  authority  that  was  rightly 
his  by  this  blustering  usurper,  made  no  attempt  to  regain  the 
initiative  from  his  son,  but  repeated  in  a  voice  that  was  meek 


322 


FONDIE 


and  helpless  by  comparison  with  the  other,  "Blanche.  .  .  .  Do 
you  hear?     .  ,  .  Blanche!     I  insist.  .  .  ." 

Oh,  how  feeble  of  authority  her  father  was!  Indignantly 
she  saw  it  now.  He  had  no  will;  no  firmness;  no  moral  cour- 
age. Anybody  might  sway  him,  lead  him  as  they  listed.  He 
was  a  parent  of  wax;  a  wafer  to  melt  and  mold.  And  this 
bully  at  the  bed-foot,  shaking  the  tortured  frame  of  her  distress, 
was  her  brother.  How  she  hated  him!  How  she  hated  his 
hands  and  his  voice,  and  the  face  she  knew  to  be  glaring  at 
her  with  callous  anger  in  the  dark!  Out  of  her  passion  she 
cried,  "Shut  up!  You've  no  right  to  ask  me  things.  YouVe 
no  right  to  shout  at  me.  Leave  my  bed  alone."  He  shook  it 
resentfully  the  harder,  saying,  "Why  don't  you  answer?  Damn 
it,  I'll  make  you  answer." 

She  said:  "I  won't  answer  you.  Don't  swear  at  me.  I 
won't  be  sworn  at  by  you.  You're  not  father."  She  heard 
her  father's  voice,  feebly  remonstrative,  interpose  to  say:  No, 
no;  they  wanted  no  profanity  at  such  a  time  as  this.  It  was 
shocking  enough  without  that.  She  said:  "I  won't  by  sworn 
at  by  him.  I  won't  answer  him.  Send  him  away.  He's  no 
right  shaking  my  bed  and  shouting  at  me." 

Her  father  uttered  his  son's  name  protestingly:  "Harold! 
.  .  .  Harold!"  Harold  retorted:  "Who  are  you  Harolding? 
I've  as  good  a  right  as  her.  If  it's  true,  I've  got  to  suffer  for 
it — a  jolly  sight  more  than  she  has.  She  hasn't  got  to  go  to 
business  every  day  and  meet  fellows,  like  I  have.  I'm  In  It 
as  much  as  she  Is,  and  more."  With  his  hands  still  tenacious 
of  the  foot-rail  he  thrust  his  face  into  the  obscurity  beyond. 
"Is  it  true?  Do  you  hear?  Is  it  true  what  Mrs.  WIckham's 
just  been  telling  father?'* 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  would  not  answer  him.  All 
her  body  seemed  to  thrill  with  the  passionate  forces  of  resist- 
ance and  denial.  He  said:  "Where  is  she?  Let's  have  a  look 
at  her!"  The  next  moment  there  was  the  ripping  sound  of  a 
match  drawn  tersely  up  his  trousers  leg.     Only  for  a  second 


F  O  N  D  I  E  323 

or  two  did  the  flame  flutter  precariously  on  its  tiny  stem,  only 
for  a  second  or  two  did  it  reveal  the  prostrate  figure  of  utter 
Trouble,  galvanized  by  its  own  spasmodic  light  into  convulsive 
movement  as  though  the  girl's  body  shook  despairingly  upon 
the  bed.  Then,  the  flame  burning  down  to  the  very  fingers 
that  held  It,  Blanche's  brother  dropped  the  charred  stalk  upon 
the  carpet  at  the  bed-foot  and  trod  out  its  spark  with  the  prac- 
ticed sole  of  the  smoker. 

"It's  true!"  he  exclaimed  out  of  the  intensified  darkness  in 
which  the  room  was  wrapped  anew.  "You  can't  deny  it." 
He  turned  conclusively  to  his  father.  "There's  no  kid  about 
it.     It's  true!" 


XX 


SHE  heard  their  descending  steps.  Her  hearing,  clinging 
desperately  to  the  sounds  of  them,  was  drawn  out  in- 
conceivably fine.  She  heard  the  further  hum  of  angry 
argument  below ;  the  slamming  of  the  door  that  sent  its  muflSed 
tremor  through  the  house  and  jangled  once  again  the  bottles 
on  her  varnished  dressing-table,  succeeded  by  her  brother's 
hurried  footsteps  to  the  gate.  The  sound  of  his  unfettered 
freedom  stirred  all  the  bitterest  jealousies  in  her  blood.  She 
had  expected  it;  she  had  awaited  It;  she  had  listened  for  It. 
She  was  here,  and  he  was  there.  She  was  bound  to  this  mis- 
erable bed,  and  he  was  free  to  come  and  go.  She  knew  where 
he  was  going.  She  knew  with  whom.  She  knew  all  they  could 
tell  her,  and  never  did.  And,  burning  with  the  vehemence  of 
a  wrong  that  can  find  for  itself  on  earth  no  right,  no  justice, 
no  redress,  she  hoped  ,  .  .  Yes.  Even  In  her  extremity  she 
hoped  that.  Awful  though  it  was,  she  hoped  that.  Then  they 
would  know.     Then  they  would  understand. 

Listening,  with  an  ear  acutely  detached  from  all  this  turbu- 
lence of  her  thoughts,  as  though  her  very  life  depended  on  it, 


324  FONDIE 

she  heard  the  rumble  of  the  vicarage  buggy  as  it  rounded  the 
house,  and  the  slur  of  the  butt-bellied  pony's  reluctant  feet, 
and  the  voice  of  the  BuUocky  that  led  it,  shouting  "Way!" 
and  "Woa!"  and  "Noo  then!"  and  "Stand!"  and  "Hod  up!" 
as  an  outlet  to  the  anger  that  had  been  constrained  against 
its  w^ill  to  drive  the  Vicar  forth  this  evening,  and  that  had 
contested  this  undesired  duty,  asking  w^hy  it  should  be  thrust 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  why  couldn't  Harold  go? 

"Because  he's  not !"  his  brother  affirmed  conclusively.  And 
w^hen  the  Bullocky  inquired  w^ith  sullen  logic,  "Then  why 
should  I?"  was  told,  "Because  you've  got  to" — submitting, 
though  with  the  usual  bad  grace,  to  the  ruling  of  this  elder 
brother,  whose  right  to  dictate  to  the  household  on  the  strength 
of  seniority,  cigarettes,  and  a  third-class  season  ticket  to  Hun- 
mouth  was  slowly  gaining  ascendancy  even  over  the  Vicar's 
self.  For  it  was  by  Harold's  ordinance,  rather  than  his  own 
volition,  that  this  vicarial  journey  was  being  undertaken. 
Harold  said  to  his  father,  as  he  said  to  the  Bullocky  in  turn, 
"You've  got  to  go!"  and  the  Vicar,  lacking  the  courage  to 
deny  a  duty  so  flatly  postulated  by  his  son,  sniflled  submission, 
agreeing  it  was  the  only  course.  The  only  course,  and  a  ter- 
rible course  for  a  man  of  his  years  and  his  position.  An  ex- 
treme and  awful  course.  .  .  . 

So  extreme  and  so  awful  that  only  after  the  strictest  inquiry, 
after  all  reasonable  human  doubt  had  been  dispelled  and 
Blanche  had  been  spared  nothing,  was  the  course  adopted. 
As  her  brother  Harold  put  it:  "Look  here,  Blanche.  We 
want  no  kid  about  this.  This  is  no  time  for  kid,  so  don't  give 
us  any.  What  we  want  to  know  is :  Who's  let  you  in  for  this  ? 
Who's  the  chap?" 

She  said,  swallowing  her  angry  inclination  to  be  mute: 
"You  know.  So  what's  the  use  of  asking  me  again.  I've 
told  you." 

"You  say  it's  young  D'Alroy." 

Yes.     She  had  said  it  once.     But,  as  her  pride  flung  out, 


FOND  IE  32s 

she  shouldn't  say  it  again.     "You  needn't  believe  me  unless 
you  like.     I  don't  care." 

He  answered:  "No.  You  don't.  You  haven't.  That's 
plain  enough.  Everybody'U  know  that  before  long.  It's  us 
that  have  to  care.  Well  ...  the  guvnor's  got  to  take  the 
matter  up,  whoever  it  is.  But  we  don't  want  him  to  go  and 
make  a  fool  of  things.  If  it's  young  D'Alroy  it  is  young 
D'Alroy.  If  it  isn't,  it  isn't.  It  doesn't  matter  a  damn  to 
me,  so  far  as  that  goes,  who  it  is.  You  know;  we  don't.  .  .  ." 
And  since  she  made  no  answer,  he  added:  "Or  is  there  any- 
body else  in  it?  If  there  is,  say  so  and  be  sharp  about  it.  I'm 
sick  of  the  whole  business." 

The  sharp  sting  of  this  fresh  bolt,  shot  at  a  quarry  already 
stricken,  caused  her  remonstrant  spirit  to  contend  again. 

".  .  .  Do  you  think  I'm  like  you,  that  goes  with  all  sorts 
of  girls?  Do  you  think  .  .  .?"  There  was  more  that  fol- 
lowed; some  of  it  audible,  some  of  it  inaudible  beneath  his 
angry  denials;  whilst  the  Vicar— stirred  by  these  disclosures 
and  the  revelation  of  this  vast  and  lurid  area  of  life  beyond 
that  domestic  region  of  it  visible  to  his  circumscribed  parental 
eyes — threw  out  continuous  words  of  deprecation  and  horror, 
as  if  he  were  balling  his  soul  of  the  contaminating  intelligence 
that  swamped  It.  "All  right!"  her  brother  flung  at  her  In  the 
end.  "Then  it's  him.  That's  settled.  You've  said  It.  It's 
him.  You'll  have  to  stick  to  it  now.  It's  young  D'Alroy  and 
nobody  else.    Very  good.    Then  the  guvnor'U  go." 

"Then  the  guvnor'U  go."  That  was  all.  That  was  all 
vouchsafed  to  her.  No  sympathy.  No  pity.  No  kindness. 
Not  even  common  civility— to  such  extent  does  the  intimacy 
of  family  life  dispense  with  those  superfluous  courtesies  pertain- 
ing to  the  more  distant  intercourse  of  strangers. 

So  the  guvnor,  that  had  to  go,  went ;  knowing  but  little  bet- 
ter why  he  went  than  Blanche,  who  listened  for  his  going  with 
bated  breath  upon  her  bed.  Yet  first  she  heard  his  footstep 
on  the  stairs,  and  her  heart  quickened  at  the  sound— sounds 


326  F  O  N  D  I  E 

importing  now  so  much  to  her — ^with  anxious  curiosity  to  know 
the  cause.  The  footsteps  faltered  halfway,  and  his  voice — 
completing  their  journey — came  to  her  bedroom,  supplicative 
rather  than  peremptory. 

"Blanche!  .  .  ." 

She  had  a  momentary  struggle  with  her  wounded  pride  to 
know  whether  her  wounded  pride  in  dignity  could  hear  him, 
or  yield  acknowledgment  to  a  single  summons.  He  mounted 
another  step. 

''Blanche!" 

She  framed  an  artificial  voice  to  answer  **Yes?" — a  voice 
strong  enough  to  reach  him,  weak  enough  to  express  prostra- 
tion; a  voice  that  should  be  resentful,  yet  submissive,  piteous 
yet  proud;  a  voice  that  should  epitomize  herself,  and  lend  a 
tongue  to  all  she  felt  and  suffered — for  there  is  scarce  a  sorrow 
so  humble  and  profound  but  decks  itself  with  some  poor  dis- 
simulation, and  practices  imposture  in  the  struggle  to  attain  its 
own  ideal. 

** Where  are  my  handkerchiefs?" 

Ah!  Why  had  her  wounded  pride  been  fool  enough  to 
answer?  Why  had  her  wounded  pride  not  known?  Now  her 
wounded  pride  could  take  no  refuge  in  the  dignity  of  silence, 
but  must  confess  another  fault — another  ignominy  to  add  to 
her  indictment  of  shame.  But  no  rebuke  from  the  staircase 
embittered  her  avowal.  Embittered  it?  "Condoned"  had 
been  a  better  word,  for  now  his  silence  hurt  her  more  than 
the  sharpest  of  reproofs.  She  heard  him  breathe  his  dreary  way 
downstairs  again,  whence,  a  moment  later,  the  voice  of  the 
Bullocky  rang  up  to  her  bedroom  in  a  valedictory  reminder: 
*'.  .  .  Think  on  thoo  gets  yon  shot  [shirt]  o'  mine  fittled  by 
to-morrow,  Blanche." 

Him  she  did  not  answer.  Him  she  would  not  answer.  The 
compulsory  violence  of  his  voice  atoned  for  her  father's  silent 
forbearance,  and  restored  the  resistance  necessary  to  the  true 
equipoise  of  a  soul. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  3*7 

And  with  that  they  went,  the  two  of  them,  leaving  Trouble 
all  alone.  Not  that  Trouble  feared  to  be  so  left.  Trouble 
wasn't  frightened.     Trouble  didn't  care. 

Trouble  in  one  moment  of  daylight  descries  more  terror 
than  in  all  the  inkiest  hours  of  night.  Never  again  did  she 
want  the  day  to  break,  the  sun  to  shine.  Let  her  be  forever 
wrapped  in  thick  nocturnal  darkness  from  the  prying  of  cruel, 
curious  human  eyes. 

"I  wish  I  was  dead.  ...  I  wish  I  was  dead." 


XXI 


THE  vicarage  buggy  rumbled  out  upon  the  roadway  with 
the  shogging  pony  in  the  shafts,  shedding  a  dim  and 
dismal  light  from  its  solitary  smoke-blurred  lantern ;  and 
Whivvle  saw  and  heard  it  go.  Dod,  deep  in  the  second-best 
chair,  with  his  slate  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  heard  the  distant 
sound  and  knew  from  whose  trap  it  issued,  and  who  was  driv- 
ing. "It's  Bullocky,"  said  he.  "Neabody  else  could  set  aud 
pony  on  like  him."  And  Fondie,  from  the  yard-end,  saw  it 
go,  but  (being  Fondie)  never  gave  the  fact  a  thought  or  asked 
himself  what  night  this  was,  or  where  the  Vicar  was  likely  to 
be  driven  at  such  a  time  or  why  the  Bullocky  (and  not 
Blanche)  accompanied  him — as  others  did.  And  the  carrier's 
wife  heard  it,  pouncing  on  the  sound  as  a  cat  pounces  on  a 
mouse,  and  threw  open  the  kitchen  door  to  hear  it  better;  and 
shished  her  husband  into  silence,  and  kept  him  silent  with  an 
elevated  flat  hand  whilst  she  listened,  saying  at  last: 

"It's  him." 

"Who's  him?"  the  carrier  inquired. 

"Surely!  .  .  .  Thoo  needn't  ti  ask.  Vicar,  o'  course.  Who 
else?     He's  off." 

"Where's  he  off  ti?" 

"Why!    Ti  Mersham  an' all.    Where  else?    Hark!    Be  still 


328  FONDIE 

wi'  ye.  What's  use  me  stood  listening  if  thoo  keeps  on  knockin* 
yon  aud  pipe  again  grate?  Aye  they're  just  turning  doon 
Mersham  Road  noo.  My  wod!  I  s'll  not  forget  today.  I'd 
give  summut  to  know  what  he  says  tiv  'im!" 

"Says  tiv  who?" 

"Lawks-a-massye !"  She  shut  the  door  with  contempt  on 
his  obtuseness.  "Ti  Rector.  Aboot  Blanche.  Noo  then,  ask 
me  next,  'What  aboot  her?'  Thoo  looks  as  if  thoo  meant 
to." 

The  carrier  made  no  effort  to  rebut  the  charge.  He  merely 
smoked  with  his  eye  complacently  on  his  pipe-bowl,  and  said: 
**Vicar  needn't  think  he'll  get  a  deal  o'  good  by  going  there." 

And  if  the  Vicar  could  but  have  had  the  comfort  of  dissenting 
from  the  carrier's  opinion,  it  might  have  mitigated  the  torments 
of  this  drive.  For  it  was  not  a  world  he  drove  through;  it 
was  the  devastated  wreckage  of  one.  The  interminable  sound 
of  the  buggy  droned  in  his  ears;  before,  behind,  around,  the 
vast  November  darkness  wrapped  him  in ;  the  fitful  glimmer  of 
the  lamp,  spread  feebly  forth  and  lighting  nothing,  served  only 
to  intensify  his  own  bewilderment.  He  sat  behind  the  butt- 
bellied  pony,  shaking  impotently  with  the  trap's  motion;  trying 
to  collect  his  faculties  for  the  interview  impending,  and  to  stir 
a  torpid  intelligence  that  asked  but  to  sit  in  stupor  and  repeat 
mechanically  when  roused,  "It  cannot  be.  My  daughter?  It 
cannot  be.    It  cannot  really  be." 

They  drove  along  the  Mersham  Road — the  same  road  they 
had  driven  over  to  the  fateful  Show,  when  Blanche  sat  with 
them,  prodding  the  pony  onward  with  the  impatient  ferrule  of 
her  sunshade  to  the  invocation,  "Oh,  get  on !  Do.  It's  sicken- 
ing." The  same  road  she  had  traversed  to  and  fro  innumer- 
able times  since  then.  They  drove  into  the  park.  They  passed 
the  clump  of  giant  trees  beneath  w^hose  shelter  at  the  Show 
the  pony  had  been  tethered,  by  the  far  gate,  out  into  the  vil- 
lage, and  up  to  the  rectory  at  last. 

The  lamplight,  dismally  stationary  before  the  rectory  gate, 


F  O  N  D  I  E  329 

awoke  the  Vicar  from  the  lethargy  in  which  he  had  been 
plunged.  He  raised  his  beard  by  an  effort  from  his  bosom,  and 
let  himself  laboriously  backward  out  of  the  narrow  doorway 
of  the  tilted  buggy;  breathing  as  if  he  had  walked  the  distance 
instead  of  driven ;  and  toiling  heavily,  as  though  the  thing  upon 
his  mind  were  lead.  The  Bullocky,  his  thought  already  home- 
ward turned,  asked,  "How  long  will  you  be?" — and  since  his 
father  only  answered  in  a  voice  of  the  sepulcher,  from  which 
all  hope  of  life  was  fled,  "I  do  not  know.  ...  I  do  not  know 
.  .  ."  exhorted  him  to  "look  sharp";  as  though  Trouble  had 
but  one  pace,  or  owed  concern  to  any  but  itself.  The  austere 
correctness  of  the  rectory  gate,  flanked  by  prim,  impenetrable 
privet,  and  surmounted  by  the  shrubbery  trees — snobs,  every  one 
of  them,  and  steeped  in  the  high-nostriled  formalism  of  Mer- 
sham — confronted  Trouble  disapprovingly.  The  well-raked 
drive,  curving  through  clumps  of  exclusive  rhododendron  to 
where  the  shuttered  rectory  condescended  to  emit  a  gleam  of 
lamplight  through  the  fan  above  the  door,  offered  no  welcome, 
but  crunched  beneath  the  Vicar's  diffident  tread  as  if  it  shrank 
ostentatiously  from  such  a  lowly  and  dishonored  contact.  The 
house  loomed  unexpectant  and  remote;  the  beam  of  undis- 
sembled  light  above  the  doorway  challenged  his  courage  like 
an  arched  brow  of  frigid  inquiry,  discountenanced  by  which  he 
groped  his  way  beneath  the  porch  and  after  infinite  fingering 
in  the  gloom  about  him  found  the  bell-pull  at  last,  and  elicited 
a  deep  reproving  clangor  from  the  regious  of  exclusiveness  be- 
yond. After  awhile,  when  only  silence  had  ensued,  the  un- 
expected sound  of  curtains  thrown  alternately  and  noisily  aside, 
amid  a  rattle  of  wooden  rings,  struck  his  hearing  with  the 
force  of  a  reprimand.  By  the  time  the  door  stood  open  he 
was  reduced  already  to  abjectness.  His  first  words,  when  the 
flood  of  inner  lamplight  fell  on  him — broken  only  by  the  sil- 
houette of  the  capped  and  aproned  waiting-maid — were  of 
apology.  He  regretted  .  .  .  He  was  sorry  .  .  .  He  hoped 
•  .  .  But  the  Rector?    Was  he  .  .  .  Could  he  .  .  .  Would  it 


33° 


FONDIE 


be  possible?  By  the  fact  that  the  silhouette  in  the  cap  and 
apron  stood  aside  and  became  a  profile  attenuated  and  respectful 
by  the  door-knob,  he  gathered  that  it  was;  it  could  be;  it 
would — and  doffed  his  flabby  hat  and  stepped,  with  this  in  front 
of  him,  into  the  disconcerting  comfort  of  the  rectorial  hall. 

His  locus  standi  in  this  house  had  ever  been  precarious ;  never 
assured.  He  had  called  and  been  admitted,  and  experienced 
the  Rector's  diffusive  affability  that  sharpened  to  a  friendly 
personal  focus  at  no  discoverable  spot  within  their  intercourse, 
and  had  gone  forth  gratified  and  cheered,  and  yet  (in  all  things 
hospitable)  unfed.  But  tonight  of  standing  he  had  none ;  such 
standing  as  he  had  was  crushed  and  overweighted  by  the  purpose 
that  had  brought  him — the  covert  purpose  that  caused  the 
flabby  hat  to  circulate  disquietedly  within  his  hands,  and  steeped 
him  in  a  sense  of  shame  and  self-effacement  as  if  his  very  en- 
trance here  had  been  by  fraud.  He  divined,  not  by  any  service 
of  his  sorrowing  and  evasive  eye,  but  rather  through  those  pores 
of  supersense  that  open  everywhere  within  the  consciousness  at 
moments  of  acute  abstraction  and  distress,  the  curtained  comfort 
of  the  hall  he  stood  in,  and  drew  instinctively  a  contrast  be- 
tween this  home  of  clockwork  orthodoxy  and  convenience  and 
the  darkened  house  of  littered  trouble  left  behind  him.  A  warm 
and  appetizing  scent  of  dinner  filled  the  air,  imprisoned  behind 
the  heavy  folds  of  the  curtains  that  the  waiting-maid  methodi- 
cally drew  again  across  the  door.  At  any  other  moment  such  an 
odor  would  have  done  the  Vicar  good.  He  would  have  been 
grateful  to  it,  as  for  a  condescension.  But  now  this  patent 
evidence  of  high  living  overwhelmed  him.  Trouble  had  caused 
him  to  forget  that  the  Rector  dined.  Such  an  errand  as  his  own 
had  chosen  of  all  hours  the  least  auspicious  for  its  task.  He 
clutched  even  at  withdrawal.  "If  the  Rector  ...  I  beg  .  .  . 
Don't  let  me  disturb  .  .  ."  But  his  apologetic  murmur  was 
respectfully  ignored.  The  waiting-maid  vanished  soundlessly 
from  the  hall.  In  her  hushed  and  shadowy  subservience  all  the 
dignity  of  this  house  and  the  consideration  due  to  it  seemed 


F  O  N  D  I  E  331 

incarnated.  Before  such  trained  insight  and  experience  as  hers 
the  Vicar  felt  his  lack  of  social  knowledge  and  assurance.  He 
was,  in  truth,  but  a  humble  servant  of  the  Lord.  But  a  hum- 
ble servant  of  the  Great  Master,  with  a  devout  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness  and  a  vague  misgiving  that  these  parish- 
splashed  boots  in  which  he  stood  were  no  meet  associates  for 
the  soft  rug  of  Oriental  richness;  and  breathing  with  a  noisy- 
spirit  of  self-effacement,  and  fingering  the  shabby  softness  of 
his  hat,  he  rehearsed  appropriate  apologies  for  this  untimely 
visit,  while  his  eyes  wandered  uneasily  amid  the  comfortable 
evidences  of  a  well-appointed  social  environment  so  infinitely 
superior  to  his  own.  Antlered  stags  looked  down  upon  him 
from  the  walls  with  liquid,  mild  and  mournfully  disdainful 
eyes;  fox-masks,  bearing  their  white  fangs  In  a  last  perpetual 
grin,  thrust  forth  their  sharp  and  vicious  muzzles  from  half 
a  dozen  points  of  vantage.  On  all  hands  prodigally  displayed 
were  tokens  of  the  country-side ;  not  the  simple  country-side  of 
wandering  botanist  and  pedestrian  bud-lover,  but  that  exclusive 
part  of  It  reserved  for  squire  and  landed  gentleman — those 
consecrated  emblems  of  gun,  rod,  and  chase.  The  all-pervading 
voice  of  the  Rector's  house  spoke  but  one  tongue,  and  that  the 
boldly  borrowed  idiom  of  Mersham.  The  very  stags  and  foxes, 
the  stuffed  hawks  and  bustards  and  heronsewes,  appeared  to 
proclaim  their  inseverable  appurtenance  to  a  class,  and  to  in- 
form this  shambling  denizen  of  another  and  inferior  order: 

'Tor  such  as  you  the  good  God  did  not  create  us.  We  serve 
the  Squire  of  Mersham  only ;  the  Rector  and  his  friends.  .  .  .'* 

The  maid  came  back  and  acknowledged  the  renewal  of  the 
Vicar's  murmur  by  asking  him  to  be  so  kind  as  follow  her ;  with 
which  she  led  him  by  a  corridor  beyond  the  staircase  to  the 
Rector's  so-called  study,  bade  him  be  seated,  and  vanished 
without  comment  on  his  saying  he  thanked  her  and  preferred 
to  stand.    After  driving  it  was  a  relief  to  stand.  .  .  . 

He  knew  the  study  of  old.  In  the  course  of  twenty  years  he 
must  have  been  within  it  quite  half  a  dozen  times,  or  more, 
22 


332  F  O  N  D  I  E 

and  borne  away  on  leaving  some  comfortable  measure  of  con- 
ferred importance;  the  glow  of  gratified  righteousness  such  as 
made  Moses'  face  shine  after  interviewing  the  Bush.  But  that 
had  been  in  the  days  of  blessed  independence,  when  as  the  Lord's 
anointed  servant  he  came  on  the  Lord's  business  and  not  on  his 
miserable  own.  Since  then  the  lineaments  of  the  room  had 
changed,  like  the  hardening  lines  of  a  countenance  when  it 
first  descries  the  mendicant  behind  the  reputed  guest.  The 
heavy  curtains  of  brocade,  drawn  closely  across  the  two  tall 
windows  hung  immobile  from  their  gilded  cornices,  with  stern 
detachment  in  their  every  fold.  The  Rector's  writing-table, 
cumbered  with  its  opulent  accessories;  its  silver  horseshoe 
calendar  and  clock;  its  Georgian  candlesticks;  its  fox-paw  and 
ivory  paper-knife;  its  wax-tray  and  crested  seal — all  these  ar- 
raigned his  shuffling  conscience  as  if  they  had  been  a  bench  of 
silent  justices,  and  this  a  court.  The  bearskin  rug,  the  massive 
curb  of  brass  before  the  fireplace,  the  roomy  grate  in  which  a 
half-roasted  pine  log  glowed  beneath  its  deceptive  snowy  coverlet 
of  ash,  the  regal  fresh-cut  chrysanthemums  in  their  vases  ex- 
tended no  portion  of  their  comfort  to  the  intruder.  They  were 
emblems,  all  of  them,  of  a  life  to  which  he  was  an  alien,  that 
had  nothing  in  common  with  his  grievances  and  wrongs.  With- 
in this  room  the  accents  of  Mersham  were  audible  to  his 
troubled  hearing  more  emphatically  than  in  the  hall.  Every- 
thing inside  it  spoke  the  Mersham  tongue,  conformed  to  the 
Mersham  standard;  staring  with  a  cold  incomprehension  un- 
disguised upon  the  spectacle  of  piety  without  a  pedigree,  or 
worth  unsupported  by  social  props.  All  the  objects  that  the 
Rector's  study  displayed  w^ere  exclusively  secular.  No  texts 
shone  upon  the  walls.  Here  w^ere  pictures  in  plenty,  it  is  true, 
but  the  reverse  of  divine.  Photographs  of  admirals  and  military 
men  in  uniform,  and  M.F.H.'s  on  horseback  with  the  hounds 
and  whippers-in  in  perspective;  and  views  of  Mersham  in  its 
glorious  days ;  and  over  the  Rector's  writing-table,  as  though  to 
inspire  him  when  he  looked  up  from  the  obese  "Directory  of  the 


FONDIE  333 

Landed  Gentry  and  Official  Classes  of  the  County,"  the  fa- 
miliar steel  engraving  of  Sir  Lancelot  with  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
got  up  by  public  subscription  as  a  token  of  public  esteem  to 
express  the  public  gratitude  for  the  deep  obligation  under  which 
his  rent-roll  and  baronetcy  laid  the  country.  One  of  the  photo- 
graphs upon  the  Rector's  bureau  in  a  red  morocco-leather  frame 
— the  portrait  of  a  smooth-cheeked  young  gentleman  with  deep 
and  languid  eyes  and  the  most  symmetrical  of  brows — might 
have  repaid  the  Vicar's  closer  observation  had  he  but  known 
whose  Identity  this  nameless  portrait  concealed.  But  the  eye  of 
Trouble  was  too  diffident  to  mark  minutely. 

The  sudden  hum  of  voices,  as  though  a  door  had  somewhere 
opened,  told  him  his  period  of  waiting  was  at  an  end,  and  caused 
him  to  blow  with  more  expectant  heaviness.  There  were 
women's  voices,  too,  he  heard,  and  women's  laughter,  that  seemed 
to  say  the  Rector  kept  company  here  tonight;  and  his  heart 
sank  at  the  sound.  He  had  done  wrong  to  take  his  son's  ad- 
vice. His  own  feelings  had  been  wiser.  He  should  have 
waited ;  he  should  have  slept  over  the  object  of  his  visit.  This 
was  no  moment  to  Importune  the  Rector  with  so  sad  a  mis- 
sion. 

And  then  the  reverberant  voice  of  the  Rector,  out-topping  all 
the  hum  of  conversation  like  a  rock  above  the  fluctuating  waters 
of  the  sea,  resounded  In  the  hall,  painfully  pronounced  as  though 
in  the  best  of  temper  with  Itself,  and  brimming  over  with  hos- 
pitable goodwill  towards  the  company  It  had  quitted — a  lofty, 
elevated  voice  that  seemed  to  sit  on  horseback  and  shout  its 
sentiments  afar ;  a  voice  overt  and  unashamed ;  a  voice  to  make 
still  huskier  and  subdued  the  voice  that  scraped  apologetically 
for  action  behind  the  Vicar's  beard.  It  boomed  into  the  study, 
blowing  the  door  open  before  it,  full  of  regrets  that  were  no 
regrets  for  having  kept  the  caller  waiting,  and  of  a  percussive 
greeting  that  was  yet  no  greeting  but  indeed  the  dissolution 
of  it. 

Ah,  Bellwood!    What!    Hadn't  they  asked  him  to  sit  down? 


334 


FONDIE 


No,  no.  .  .  .  Not  at  all.  Quite  right.  Quite  right.  As  a 
rule  he  had  finished  dinner  by  this  time.  .  .  .  But  tonight  they 
had  friends.  The  D'Alroys.  Ah,  no,  not  those  D'Alroys — for 
the  name  had  plunged  the  Vicar  into  a  paroxysm  of  horrified 
regret — not  the  Mersham  D'Alroys.  Cousins  of  theirs.  From 
Berkshire.  He  wouldn't  hear  of  the  Vicar's  leaving.  He  could 
spare  him  some  minutes.  ''You're  not  a  troublesome  customer, 
Bellwood.  What  little  business  you  and  I  have  to  do  doesn't 
take  us  very  long  as  a  rule."  Stop.  Let  him  first  blaze  the 
fire  up  a  bit. 

To  the  Vicar's  troubled  perception  he  seemed  less  a  man  than 
a  center  of  compressive  forces.  It  was  as  if  all  the  county  ha4 
come  in  with  him,  and  the  room  were  filled  with  the  breezy 
ruthlessness  of  the  hunting-field.  The  fox,  cowering  in  his 
cover  before  the  exuberant  music  of  the  pack,  could  not  have 
apprehended  with  less  relish  that  inevitable  moment  when, 
pressed  by  these  well-bred  pursuers,  he  must  make  his  bolt  into 
the  open.  No  crimson  hunting-coat,  silk  hat,  or  silver-mounted 
crop  could  have  boded  less  of  mercy  for  the  fox  than  did  the 
Rector's  dinner  jacket,  cuf?-links,  and  evening  shoes  to  his 
quavering  guest.  And  when  he  advanced  upon  the  latter  with 
a  silver  cigar  case  in  his  outstretched  hand,  not  a  pistol  pointed 
at  the  Vicar's  bosom  could  have  sent  through  it  a  swifter  qualm. 
No  ?  He  snapped  the  silver  lid  upon  the  Vicar's  profuse  rejec- 
tion. "But  you'll  take  a  cup  of  coffee?  Surelj^  .  .  Coffee 
IS  just  going  into  the  drawing-room.  Let  me  ring  for  a  cup." 
The  Vicar  shrank  from  the  suggestion  with  an  alacrity  almost 
precipitate.  To  accept  hospitality  in  this  house,  knowing  what 
errand  brought  him  to  it,  seemed  like  fraudulence.  Even  to 
have  to  thank  the  Rector  for  a  kindness  declined  added  to  the 
awful  difficulty  of  the  task  before  him.  The  Rector  said  "No  ?'* 
again  and,  reopening  the  lid  of  the  cigar  case,  nipped  critically 
the  stomach  of  a  fat  cigar  and,  confirming  the  selection,  put  it 
between  his  teeth  and  lit  it. 

"And  now  .  .  ."  blowing  out  the  intimation  of  his  readiness 


FONDIE  335 

in  a  trumpet  of  smoke,  "what  can  I  .  .  .?  But  do  sit  down." 
He  annexed  a  term  to  the  invitation,  "At  least  for  a  moment," 
fearing  perhaps  that  the  Vicar's  bowed  and  bulky  person  might 
find  it  as  hard  to  rise  again  as  now  it  did  to  sit.  The  Vicar 
said,  "No,  no.  I  assure  you  .  .  ."  and  then,  fearing  on  his 
side  that  such  obstinate  refusal  might  cause  his  host  offense  and 
prejudice  the  words  he  had  to  say,  sat  uncomfortably  on  the  in- 
dicated chair,  guarding  against  any  evidence  of  relaxation  or  re- 
pose. "You  are  very  kind.  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  I  must 
not  keep  you  from  your  friends.  I  did  not  intend  .  .  ."  He 
dropped  his  voice  to  a  level  commensurate  with  the  degree  of  his 
distress.  "I  came  upon  a  grievous  errand  .  .  ."  he  paused, 
"...  a  grievous  errand !"  and  blew  his  nose  upon  the  handker- 
chief of  yesterday,  in  the  vague  hope  that  the  Rector  might  help 
him  in  his  difficulty  with  some  assistant  word.  But  the  Rector, 
withdrawing  the  wet  and  bitten  end  of  the  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
said  no  more  than  "Surely  .  .  ."  for  the  Vicar  bred  and  fed 
no  stock  and  farmed  no  glebe  that  the  Rector  knew  of,  and 
kept  not  any  animal  nearer  to  a  horse  than  the  superannuated 
vicarage  pony  to  recommend  him  to  the  sympathies  of  proper- 
thinking  men. 

".  .  .  My  daughter!"  He  stopped  at  that,  because  what 
needs  must  follow  rose  into  his  throat  and  choked  him.  His 
daughter?  Had  his  daughter  been  the  ninth  daughter  of  the 
tenth  son  of  the  second  cousin  of  a  Clydesdale  or  a  Hackney 
the  Rector's  brow  would  have  grown  smooth  beneath  enlighten- 
ment in  a  moment.  But  the  daughter  of  a  humble  vicar,  his 
neighbor  of  twenty  years,  took  more  visualizing.  His  brow 
creased  as  though  the  very  word  "daughter"  were  strange  and 
unfamiliar.  "Ah,  to  be  sure!"  He  seemed  to  realize  at  last, 
with  an  effort,  that  this  must  be  in  fact  the  Vicar's  daughter  to 
whom  the  Vicar,  with  such  manifest  emotion,  was  alluding. 
"Not  ill,  I  hope?" 

"Not  ill  .  .  ."  the  Vicar  murmured.  "Worse  than  ill.  Far 
vrorse  than  ill.     In  trouble.     In  terrible  trouble  and  distress. 


336  FONDIE 

I  have  just  left  her.  She  is  prostrate."  He  stumbled  amid 
prevaricative  phrases  like  a  blind  man,  hoping  to  hit  upon  the 
right  presentment  of  this  dreadful  case  by  accident  and  some 
eventual  guidance  of  the  hand  of  God;  not  daring  to  seek  the 
Rector's  eye  that  looked  upon  him  curiously  over  the  alternating 
red  and  gray  of  his  cigar.  "...  I  have  just  heard.  .  .  .  She 
has  just  told  me.  ...  I  have  learned  the  truth  from  her  own 
lips.  ...  It  has  taken  all  the  spirit  out  of  me.  .  .  .  My  daugh- 
ter has  had  a  great  wrong  done  to  her." 

The  Rector  contributed  "Good  gracious!"  The  comment 
was  not  destitute  of  deep  concern,  and  the  Vicar's  flagging  spirit 
drew  courage  from  this  sympathetic  reception  of  his  trouble. 
It  touched  him  and  made  his  tears  begin  to  ooze.  He  said: 
"You  can  understand  .  .  .  the  shock  to  me.  After  all  these 
years.  I  am  quite  unstrung.  It  is  a  good  thing  there  was  no 
week-night  service.  I  could  not  have  undertaken  it."  He 
reverted  to  his  daughter's  case.  "What  is  to  be  done?  What 
is  to  be  done?"  And  as  yet  he  dared  not  name  the  name  of 
D'Alroy. 

The  Rector  displayed  no  doubt  upon  the  matter.  The  advice 
he  had  for  upwards  of  thirty  years  embodied  in  a  formula  and 
prescribed  unhesitatingly  to  the  parish  in  all  such  cases  he 
tendered  now.  Done?  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done. 
"If  the  fellow's  a  decent,  respectable  fellow,  Bellwood,  the  best 
thing  is  to  marry  'em  off  at  once,"  said  he.  "The  sooner  the 
better.  Make  no  bones  about  it.  Don't  wait  a  week  longer 
than  necessary."  It  was  a  prescription  that  had  answered  ad- 
mirably in  Sir  Lancelot's  time.  And  as  the  Rector  said,  such 
marriages  were  not  infrequently  as  fortunate  as  those  contracted 
under  less  stringent  circumstances.  He  could  instance  a  score  of 
cases  where  his  intervention  had  saved  the  parish  from  a  scandal 
and  spared  some  foolish  girl  from  lifelong  shame.  The  Vicar, 
breathing  in  heavy  stupefaction  at  this  unlooked-for  testimony 
of  the  Mersham  Rector's  principle,  as  if  at  the  completion  of  a 
tenantry  dinner,  faltered  his  acknowledgment  of  the  counsel 


F  O  N  D  I  E  337 

given,  that  he  valued  highly — ^valued  more  than  he  could  say. 
But  .  .  . 

"But?"  The  Rector,  mounted  now  upon  his  horse,  threw 
the  "but"  Impatiently  aside  as  he  would,  In  riding,  have  thrown 
open  some  Mersham  tenant's  gate.  This  was  no  question  of 
"huts."  "I  stand  no  nonsense  here,"  said  he;  "and  D'Alroy 
backs  me  up.  Loyally  up."  He  asked  concerning  the  delin- 
quent "Who  is  he?  A  parishioner?  I  suppose  your  daughter 
tcld  you.    You  know  the  fellow's  name?" 

The  Vicar's  breath  grew  heavier  and  heavier  within  his 
bosom.  With  a  thickening  of  the  veins  about  his  neck  and  tem- 
ples, he  said,  "I  fear  ...  I  am  afraid  .  .  .  this  name  will 
shock  you  no  less  deeply  than  it  shocks  me.  My  daughter  .  .  . 
my  daughter  tells  me" — ^he  forced  the  clogging  statement  from 
his  tongue  with  a  crimson  effort — "young  Mr.  D'Alroy." 

"What?  .  .  .  You  mean  to  say?" 

For  just  a  moment  preceding  the  Rector*s  words  there  had 
been  a  silence  so  Inert  and  weighty  that  it  seemed  as  If  not 
only  the  air  in  the  Vicar  of  Whivvle's  lungs,  but  all  the  air  in 
the  room  about  him  had  been  curdled.  The  sharp  tone  of 
remonstrant  anger  in  the  Rector's  voice  pierced  all  this  solidity 
of  internal  and  exterior  stuff,  and  reached  the  heart  of  his  de- 
spair. "Your  daughter  dares  to  make  such  an  accusation  against 
my  .  .  ."  He  would  have  liked  to  say  "my  nephew,"  but  he 
checked  himself  in  time  and  substituted  "Mr.  D'Alroy's  son?" 
In  the  heat  of  his  first  indignation  the  color  rose  violently  to 
his  face  and  forehead,  and  the  ash  upon  his  shaken  cigar  spilled 
into  powder  on  his  knee.  His  indignation  employed  almost  the 
same  words  that  the  Vicar's  indignation  had  made  use  of  to 
the  carrier's  wife.  "It  is  monstrous!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  had 
held  a  higher  opinion  of  you,  Bellwood.  I  thought  you  had 
more  self-respect  than  to  lend  yourself  to  such  a  disgraceful 
charge  as  this."  His  righteous  anger  led  him  to  flat  denial. 
"It  Is  abominable.  I  deny  it.  In  D'Alroy's  name  I  repudiate 
it.    It  is  untrue.    It  cannot,  could  not  be  true."    He  flung,  for 


338  F  O  N  D  I  E 

token  of  the  unanswerable  justice  of  his  disbeh'ef,  the  prodigious 
statement:  "Mr.  D'Alroy  is  a  gentleman." 

All  his  long-cumulating  prejudices,  all  the  old  prerogatives 
and  rights,  all  the  old  feudal  abuses  and  securities,  all  the  blind 
and  indestructible  confidence  of  the  class  it  stood  for  blazed 
forth  in  the  Rector's  usage  of  the  term.  As  his  lips  uttered  it 
it  seemed  unarguable;  final  and  supreme,  like  God  Himself. 
And  before  this  word  of  traditional  authority,  like  a  cringing 
dog  in  presence  of  the  whip  that  has  punished  it,  even  the  Vicar 
was  obsequiously  dumb;  awed  into  habitual  obedience  and  sub- 
jection by  the  fetish  to  which,  his  life  long,  he  had  bowed  and 
scraped  in  slavery.  For  it  left  him  no  answer.  He  could  not 
claim  this  title  as  his  own,  as  if  the  quality  it  expressed  were 
common  to  the  world  of  true  believers,  like  vulgar  piety  and 
faith.  He  was  no  gentleman  himself.  At  heart  he  knew  it ;  in 
secret  he  deplored  it;  it  was  his  sad  misfortune.  He  was  but 
a  humble  servant  of  the  Lord,  emerged  from  small  beginnings; 
serving  God  in  shabby  shoes  for  a  stipend.  Not  for  him  was  it 
to  rebut  the  Rector's  boast  with  the  same  proud,  resolute  asser- 
tion: "My  daughter  is  a  lady!"  (would  but  to  Heaven  she 
had  been!) — and  so  let  these  two  contestant  indignations  stand 
squarely  breast  to  breast.  All  he  could  do  was  to  bow  in  in- 
stant recognition  of  the  justness  of  the  Rector's  ruling  and  say, 
"I  never  doubted  it.  He  bears  an  honored  name,"  as  a  pre- 
liminary to  the  mild  protesting  of  his  daughter's  truth;  truth 
he  had  held  so  slightingly  till  now.  "You  do  not  suggest  .  .  . 
You  would  not  ask  me  to  disbelieve  my  daughter?  Surely,  sir! 
All  the  years  I  have  known  her  .  .  .  she  has  never  been  guilt}' 
of  one  falsehood  that  I  can  recall."  He  said  it.  Yes.  In  the 
hour  of  his  anguish,  with  her  happiness  and  his  own  at  stake, 
he  said  it — ^just  as  any  farmer's  wife  might  righteously  protest 
the  freshness  of  uncertain  eggs,  or  the  juvenility  of  questionable 
chickens.  And  almost  he  believed  it,  to  such  extent  does  trouble 
obliterate  the  fine  divisions  betw^ixt  truth  and  falsehood,  and 
bring  all  reason  into  vague  conformity  with  w^hat  the  stricken 


F  O  N  D  I  E  339 

heart  affirms.  "My  daughter's  character  is  as  dear  to  me  .  .  . 
as  sacred,  as  my  own." 

The  Rector  had  already  risen  from  his  chair,  and,  having  first 
tried  the  handle  of  the  study  door  to  reassure  himself  their 
privacy  was  protected,  paced  to  and  fro  as  if  his  indignant  emo- 
tions demanded  some  vent  of  activity  for  their  belief. 

**Your  daughter's  character!"  he  said,  and  to  her  father  the 
shape  of  his  mouth  w^as  ominous  and  ugly.  "It  is  a  pity.  Bell- 
wood,  both  you  and  she  did  not  think  more  about  that  before.'* 

The  awfulness  of  the  insinuation,  couched  in  such  a  voice 
and  emanating  from  such  a  source,  caused  the  Vicar's  beard  to 
creep.  All  the  world  seemed  falling  on  his  head;  he  stood 
bewildered,  dazed,  beneath  the  avalanche  of  dislodged  and  dis- 
located things  that  had  once  been  facts,  fixed  permanently  and 
securely  (as  he  dreamed)  in  the  firmament  presided  over  by 
God. 

".  .  .  More  about  that  before!"  he  echoed  huskily.  "How? 
Surely  .  .  .  you  don't  suggest  .  .  ." 

The  Rector  corrected  him:  "I  do  suggest.  As  a  father, 
Bellwood,  you  may  try  your  best  to  shelter  your  daughter's 
character.  That's  perhaps  to  be  expected.  It's  only  natural. 
But  you  don't  tell  me  you've  been  ignorant  of  it.  If  so,  the 
more  fool  you.  You've  known.  Everybody's  known.  They've 
known  it  here  in  Mersham.  Don't  tell  me  you  haven't  known 
in  Whivvle." 

The  Vicar  could  only  clutch  impotently  at  the  Rector's  words : 
buoys  to  float  his  drowning  intelligence,  that  his  intelligence 
lacked  strength  to  grasp  or  hold.  ".  .  .  Ignorant?  .  .  . 
Everybody?  .  .  .  Mersham?" 

"You  let  your  daughter  run  wild  about  the  place,"  the  Rector 
charged  him.  "Under  no  restraint  or  supervision  whatever. 
Flying  about  all  over,  at  any  time  she  likes,  with  anybody 
she  chooses — carpenters'  sons  and  any  sort  of  companion  she 
cares  to  pick  up."  For  one  who  had  experienced  such  difficulty 
in  visualizing  the  Vicar's  daughter  at  the  beginning  of  his  inter- 


340  F  O  N  D  I  E 

view,  he  seemed  surprisingly  well  informed  respecting  her. 
"And  then  .  .  .  when  this  thing  happens,  as  your  own  common 
sense  might  tell  you  it  was  quite  likely  to  happen,  you  have  the 
(I  was  going  to  say  'effrontery,'  Bellwood,  but  I'll  try  and  spare 
your  feeling)  you  have  the  .  .  .  the" — no  alternative  came 
to  his  tongue's  aid — "well!  .  .  .  the  impudence,  if  you  like, 
to  come  here  and  lay  a  monstrous  charge  against  the  son  of 
my  friend  D'Alroy.  A  fellow  that's  lived  in  this  very  house, 
under  this  very  roof,  and  dined  at  my  table,  and  enjoyed  the 
intimate  confidence  and  affection  of  both  my  wife  and  myself. 
It's  an  abominable  charge.  A  charge  that  no  nice-minded  girl, 
possessed  of  any  proper  feeling  whatever,  would  have  dared  or 
cared  to  make.  You  don't  go  to  your  joiners'  shops  and  car- 
penters' sons.  I  suppose  you've  argued  they're  not  worth  the 
trouble.  You  come  here.  Here!  To  Mersham!  ...  If  it 
was  anybody  else  but  you,  Bellwood,  I  tell  you  what:  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  'em.  I  should  have  called  it  blackmail;  rank  black- 
mail. I'd  have  had  'em  shown  to  the  door  in  a  moment;  in  a 
moment.     D'Alroy 's  lawyers  should  have  dealt  with  them." 

The  Vicar  floundered  helplessly  beneath  the  Rector's  indict- 
ment. "My  dear  sir  .  .  .  You  rnay  be  sure.  ...  If  you  will 
only  hear  me.  .  .  .  My  daughter  .  .  ." 

"Your  daughter?  Why  .  .  .  your  daughter  does  not  even 
know  young  D'Alroy.  I  know  he  doesn't  know  her.  I  don't 
suppose  he  would  know  her  by  sight  or  name.  What?  At  the 
Flower  Show?  Which  Flower  Show?  The  Mersham  Flower 
Show?  The  Mersham  Flower  Show?  Why!  He  was  with 
me  the  whole  time;  I  had  my  hand  upon  the  dear  fellow's 
shoulder  most  of  it.  He  was  never  out  of  my  sight  a  moment. 
/  can  vouch  for  that."  His  eyes,  roaming  as  he  walked,  fell 
upon  the  photograph  on  the  writing-table  which  the  Vicars 
eye,  internally  preoccupied,  had  failed  to  note.  He  picked  the 
portrait  up  and  held  it  out  with  vindicating  pride  before  his 
nonplused  guest. 

"There!     Look!     Is   that   a   dishonorable    face?     Is   there 


F  O  N  D  I  E  341 

anything  mean  or  false  or  underhand  about  that  face?  Do  you 
tell  me  those  lips  would  sully  themselves  with  dishonorable 
lies?" 

The  Vicar  murmured:  "Far  be  it  from  me  to  suggest  any 
such  thing.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  attribute  to  young  Mr. 
D'Alroy  any  but  the  highest  and  most  honorable  feelings." 
He  knew  they  were  honorable.  He  was  sure  they  were  honor- 
able. It  was  his  hope  and  trust  and  consolation  that  they  were 
— and  would  remain — ^honorable.     But  his  daughter  .  .  . 

The  Rector,  breaking  in  again  the  moment  that  the  tribute 
to  the  merits  of  young  Mr.  D'Alroy  failed,  said,  "When  does 
she  say  she  met  him?  When  does  she  say  this  discreditable 
affair  took  place?"  and  when  the  Vicar  began  to  the  best  of 
his  ability  to  explain,  cut  into  the  explanation  with  a  scathing, 
"Ah !  I  see.  To  be  sure !  The  meetings  were  secret.  Strictly 
secret.  I  could  have  guessed  as  much."  He  pushed  the  photo- 
graph afresh  before  the  Vicar's  watery  attention.  "Look. 
Look  again.  Is  there  anything  secret  about  that  face?  Is  that 
the  sort  of  face  to  slink  out  of  sight  to  keep  clandestine  appoint- 
ments? Why!  The  very  portrait  gives  such  a  charge  the  lie. 
That  face  has  no  cause  to  look  ashamed.  It  is  the  face  of  a 
gentleman,  who  would  scorn  to  stoop  to  any  low  or  common 
intimacy  with  those  beneath  him.  What  ?  What  do  you  say  ? 
Knew  it?  Who  knew  it?"  And  before  the  Vicar,  thus  in- 
terrogated, could  reply,  proceeded:  "Should  I  not  have  been 
the  first  to  notice  such  a  thing  if  there  were  a  particle  of 
truth  in  it?  Do  you  suppose  he  could  have  concealed  such  a 
thing  from  me,  or  my  wife,  with  all  the  opportunities  we  had 
to  study  him,  and  learn  to  love  and  respect  his  manly,  upright, 
honest  character?  To  suggest  such  a  thing  only  proves  that 
you're  not  acquainted  with  him.**  He  cast  the  imputation 
aside  with  contempt.  "The  mere  idea  is  monstrous.  Why,  I 
tell  you,  Bellwood,  the  boy  was  scarcely  a  moment  from  my 
side.  If  he  was  not  with  me  he  was  with  my  wife.  Or  if 
not  with  her,  then  he  was  riding  in  the  park,  or  reading  for  his 


343  FONDIE 

Smalls.  I  can  account  for  every  moment  of  his  time.  I  can 
pledge  my  reputation  on  his."  He  put  down  the  photograph 
with  conclusive  impatience.  "Your  daughter  is  mistaken,  Bell- 
wood.  You  have  been  misinformed.  There's  some  most  re- 
grettable error  somewhere." 

It  seemed  almost  to  the  Vicar's  laboring  intelligence  that 
the  interview  was  to  close  at  that;  that  he  was  to  be  turned 
away  from  the  closed  and  padlocked  gates  of  an  exclusive  justice 
that  did  not  yield  to  such  humble  suppliants  as  he.  And  all 
at  once,  in  sheer  despair,  humility  burst  its  obsequious  dam 
and  his  words  gushed  out,  not  noisily,  but  with  the  force  of 
irresistible  sincerity  at  last. 


XXII 

DID  the  Rector  think  he  had  driven  here  this  evening 
against  all  the  force  of  his  repugnance  and  inclination 
without  good  cause?  Did  the  Rector  think  these 
tears  were  wrung  from  him  without  a  reason?  No.  The 
Rector  did  not  think  it;  the  Rector  could  not  think  it.  He  had 
proof.     Undoubted  proof.     His  son  .  .  . 

.  .  .Ah!  His  son.  To  be  sure  (said  the  Rector).  His 
son! 

.  .  .  And  not  only  his  son.  He  did  not  depend  alone  on 
him.     Others  besides  his  son. 

Ah!     To  be  sure.     The  carpenter's  son,    for  instance. 

No.  Not  the  carpenter's  son.  The  village.  The  whole 
village.  It  had  been  common  talk  in  every  hearing  but  his 
own.  His  daughter  had  been  seen  in  young  Mr.  D'Alroy's 
company  not  once  alone  but  many  times.  It  seems  (though 
he  had  never  been  aware  of  it  till  now)  that  the  young  gentle- 
man had  bought  his  daughter  chocolates;  that  they  had  spent 
whole  afternoons  together  in  Mersham  Park.  He  poured  out 
the  overwhelming  stream  of  facts  upon  which  flood,  at  last. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  343 

the  very  ark  of  disbelief  itself  must  eventually  have  floated. 

The  purpose  of  his  words  seemed  served.  All  at  once,  where 
(before)  a  wall  of  solid  obstinacy  had  opposed  him,  the  wall 
was  gone.  His  words  no  longer  rebounded  from  a  concrete 
front  of  prejudice  and  indignation,  whose  whole  purpose  was 
resistant.  The  Rector,  it  is  true,  retracted  nothing,  but  his 
voice — when  next  he  used  it — spoke  in  a  new  and  less  dogmatic 
key;  though  what  it  lost  in  dogma,  to  be  sure,  it  gained  in 
reticence ;  the  reticence  of  a  dignity  too  august  to  frame  regrets 
or  phrase  admissions. 

"It  comes  to  this,  then,"  Dignity  pronounced.  "It  is  your 
daughter's  word  against  the  word  of  Mr.  D'Alroy.  It  is  a 
question  of  testimonv." 

The  Vicar  said,  "Yes";  the  Vicar  said,  "No."  The  Vicar, 
rocking  after  correctness  like  a  capsized  boat  in  its  effort  to  right 
itself,  said :  "There  is  no  question  of  any  word  against  the  other. 
It  is  a  question  of  conscience."  He  begged  the  Rector  to  write 
to  Mr.  D'Alroy  and  acquaint  him  with  the  awful  situation  of 
his  daughter.  He  begged  the  Rector — ^whom,  in  moments  of 
more  intimate  address,  he  ventured  to  invoke  as  "My  dear 
sir" — he  begged  the  Rector  to  use  his  influence,  to  bring  all 
his  power  to  bear  for  good;  and  was  obviously  shaken  when 
the  Rector  coldly  Interrogated:  "For  whose  good?  Up  to 
the  present  we  are  going  on  nothing  but  assumption;  on  the 
assumption  that  Leonard  D'Alroy  will  admit  what  you  say. 
I  have  no  knowledge  that  he  will  do  anything  of  the  kind.  On 
the  contrary,  he  may  deny  the  whole  thing." 

The  Vicar,  shocked  into  expostulation,  cried:  "He  cannot. 
My  dear  sir!  ...  It  is  impossible.  His  conscience  will  not 
let  him.     He  cannot  be  so  base  ...  so  heartless!" 

The  Rector,  with  a  slightly  rising  voice,  repeated:  "I  say 
he  may  deny  It.  If  it  isn't  true  he  will  most  certainly  deny  it. 
And  whatever  Leonard  D'Alroy  may  say,  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  I  shall  Implicitly  believe  him.  His  word  with  me,  and 
with  all  who  are  acquainted  with  him,  must  be  final.     I  shall 


344  F  O  N  D  I  E 

take  that  word  against  the  word  of  all  the  tattlers  in  Whiwle. 
I  know  his  character  too  well  to  entertain  the  smallest  doubt 
of  it.  No  straighter  gentleman  ever  sat  a  horse.  And  this  I 
can  vouch  for;  if  Leonard  D'Alroy  had  been  as  intimate  a 
member  of  your  household  as  he  has  been  of  mine,  you  would 
have  shared  my  confidence." 

The  Vicar,  sniffling  with  anxieties  and  apprehensions  to  which 
policy  denied  a  voice,  said  he  was  very  sure  of  it.  If  anything 
helped  to  console  him  during  this  dreadful  hour  it  was  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  in  good  hands;  hands  that  would  do 
everything,  he  knew,  to  save  his  daughter's  honor  and  his 
own  respectable  name. 

"I  can  count  on  you,"  he  told  the  Rector  with  effusion. 
*'You  will  do  your  best.  You  will  implore  him  to  remember 
the  terrible  position  of  my  daughter.  You  will  appeal  to  his 
best,  his  noblest  feelings.  Beseech  him  to  admit  the  truth,  at 
all  costs  and  consequences." 

The  Rector  commented  tersely  that  not  any  words  from  him 
would  be  necessary  to  make  the  son  of  Edward  D'Alroy  act  in. 
accordance  with  those  hereditary  principles  of  truth  and  honor 
with  which  the  House  of  Mersham  had  been  so  conspicuously 
associated  in  the  past.  D'Alroys  had  not  to  be  coaxed  to  do 
their  duty  like  parishioners. 

The  Vicar,  laboring  out  of  the  pit  into  which  his  fatherly 
concern  had  plunged  him,  said:  "No,  no.  !My  dear  sir,  I 
would  not  for  one  moment  seem  to  doubt  him.  Forgive  me  if 
I  spoke  as  though  I  did.  But  a  word  from  you,  from  such  an 
esteemed  and  trusted  friend  of  the  family" — he  corrected 
himself  in  time — "  .  .  .  member  of  the  family,  I  should  have 
said  .  .  .  just  one  single  word  from  you.  It  is  all  I  ask.  Your 
influence;  your  good  Influence — at  a  critical  moment.  My 
daughter  .  .  ." — he  used  the  handkerchief  again — "  .  .  .  my 
daughter  wrote  to  him  after  discovering  the  horrible  condition 
she  was  in.  He  never  answered  her  letter.  You  may  imagine 
her  distress.     Not  one  single  line  of  comfort  or  regret.  ..." 


FONDIE  345 

"If  your  daughter  wrote  actually  as  you  say,"  the  Rector 
commented  sternly,  "and  got  no  answer,  it  only  serves  to 
convince  me  that  her  letter  can  have  called  for  none.  In  such 
a  case  as  this  no  answer  may  be  the  only  one  that  a  gentleman 
like  Leonard  D'Alroy,  or  any  other  gentleman  in  his  position, 
could  possibly  return.  I  fear  my  influence  would  be  merely 
wasted.  ..." 

"No,  no!"  the  Vicar  interposed,  raising  a  shocked  and  be- 
seeching beard.  "I  beg  of  you.  I  may  have  been  mistaken. 
I  think  I  must  have  been  mistaken.  Surely  she  would  not 
have  written  without  consulting  me.  It  may  have  been  some 
other  letter  I  had  in  mind.  But  this  blow  has  bewildered  me. 
I  scarcely  know  what  I  say  or  hear.  Everything  is  confusion. 
All  seems  to  go  round  with  me.  ..." 

Yes.  The  Rector  saw  that.  The  Rector  made  allowance 
for  that.  But  for  this  allowance  he  would  have  closed  the 
conversation  long  ago.  Naturally  this  interview  was  most 
painful  for  him;  most  painful  and  unpleasant.  And  as  an 
indication  that  his  clemency  was  slowly  being  exhausted  he 
drew  out  his  flat  gold  watch  and  puckered  his  mouth  at  the 
sight  of  it.  "Good  gracious!  ...  I  am  afraid  you  will  have 
to  excuse  me." 

The  Vicar,  rising  with  labored  alacrity,  and  yet  showing  the 
wild  eyes  of  care  that  still  ranged  over  the  whole  field  of  un- 
settled controversy,  begged  forgiveness  for  his  encroachment  on 
the  Rector's  time. 

"There  is  one  thing  ..."  the  Rector  said,  as  he  put  the 
watch  away,  "I  ought  to  mention.  There  is  one  thing  I  feel 
it  incumbent  on  me  to  mention.  I  should  be  failing  in  my  duty 
toward  my  friend  D'Alroy  and  his  son,  no  less  than  toward 
you  and  your  daughter,  if  I  did  not  mention  it.'* 

The  introduction  of  the  word  "duty"  restored  assurance  to 
the  Vicar's  shaking  beard  and  hope  to  his  anxious  eye.  "Speak, 
my  dear  sir,"  he  said.  "I  beg  you  will  speak.  Speak  freely. 
Anything  you  may  think  fit  to  say  I  shall  be  grateful  for.'* 


346  F  O  N  D  I  E 

And  the  Rector,  almost  without  waiting  for  the  invitation, 
spoke.  Assuming  (said  he)  that  the  case  was  as  his  visitor  had 
stated  it  (which,  by  the  way,  he  must  remind  the  Vicar  he  by 
no  means  accepted,  and  could  not  naturally  accept  on  such 
^x  parte  showing)  .  .  .  assuming,  however,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  the  facts  of  the  case  were  ultimately  found  to 
be,  roughly  speaking,  as  the  Vicar  said  they  were  ...  he  was 
unsure,  exactly,  what  the  Vicar  had  sought  to  gain  by  calling 
upon  him  this  evening;  what  precise  form  of  remedy  for  his 
daughter's  misconduct  he  had  in  mind. 

The  Vicar,  dazed  by  this  unexpected  buffet  to  his  confidence 
— that  had  been  expectant  of  better  things — echoed:  "Mis- 
conduct? Surely,  my  dear  sir  .  .  .  you  don't  suggest  that  my 
daughter  is  alone  to  blame?" 

The  Rector  reiterated  the  contested  word  to  justify  it.  "If 
your  daughter  had  behaved  herself  like  a  lady,  Bellwood,"  he 
said,  "this  would  never  have  happened.  You  know  as  well  as 
I  can  tell  you  that  ladies  don't  do  such  things;  aren't  allowed 
to  do  'em,  in  fact.  But  with  a  gentleman  it's  different.  Natu- 
rally he  has  more  liberty.  A  man  can't  be  tied  down  by  the 
same  restrictions  as  a  woman.  The  world  makes  allowances 
for  acts  of  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  young  fellows — particu- 
larly for  young  fellows  of  good  birth  and  breeding,  with  all 
the  blood  and  mettle  of  their  ancestors  coursing  in  their  veins. 
There's  some  excuse  for  them.  It's  only  natural.  And  with- 
out some  reasonable  allowance  on  the  w^orld's  part  the  world 
couldn't  get  on  at  all.  A  young  fellow  knows  the  indulgence 
he  can  count  on,  and  a  girl  knows — or  ought  to  know,  if  her 
parents  do  their  duty  by  her — ^what  risks  she  runs.  You 
ought  to  have  kept  your  daughter  safe  at  home,  Bellwood. 
Why,  good  gracious !  a  dog-fancier  could  have  taught  you  better 
wisdom  in  the  matter  than  you  seem  to  have  shown." 

"I  see  ...  I  see!"  Under  this  homily  the  Vicar's  bosom 
began  to  heave  again.  "It's  my  fault.  I  am  to  blame.  The 
sin  and  punishment  are  mine." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  347 

The  Rector  minced  no  nice  sentiment  about  it.  "In  a  way 
they  are,"  he  said.  "If  you'd  looked  the  possibility  in  the 
face  from  the  first,  and  taken  more  care  to  guard  against  it, 
this  thing  would  not  have  happened.  But  it  has  happened,  and 
now  you  want  to  find  somebody  to  take  the  blame  and  burden 
off  your  shoulders,  and  relieve  your  daughter  of  the  disgrace 
which,  after  all,  she  has  done  no  more  than  deserve.  .  .  .  You 
come  to  me.  Why?  With  what  object?  What  do  you  think 
is  to  be  done  now,  at  this  late  hour?" 

The  Vicar  faltered.  "Done?  At  this  late  hour?  BuC 
surely  ...  my  dear  sir  .  .  .  you  said  yourself  what  was  to 
be  done;  as  soon  as  possible.  The  only  thing,  you  said.  You 
can't  have  forgotten  your  words.  ..." 

The  Rector  interrupted  him  unpromisingly :  "You  don't 
mean  marriage?" 

Deflected  by  the  question  into  protective  elusiveness,  the 
Vicar  said:  "I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  My  brain's  in  a 
whirl.  .  .  .  But  you  said  .  .  .  you  certainly  said,  'There's  only 
one  thing  to  be  done.  Marry  her  off  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  . 
if  he's  a  decent,  respectable  fellow.'  " 

"And  if  he  was  a  decent,  respectable  fellow  I  should  say 
so  still,"  the  Rector  affirmed.  "But  what!  Surely.  Good 
gracious,  Bellwood!  You  wouldn't  call  Leonard  D'Alroy  a 
decent,  respectable  fellow?  I  hope  you'd  have  more  sense. 
Your  sense  should  tell  you  .  .  .  that  marriage  is  out  of  the 
question  here." 

"Out  of  the  question !"  The  repetition  in  the  Vicar's  voice 
bore  the  guise  of  a  groan. 

"Utterly  out  of  the  question.  What!  Why,  you've  only  to 
look  the  thing  squarely  in  the  face.  The  son  of  Edward 
D'Alroy  to  jeopardize  all  his  prospects  for  a  single  indiscretion ; 
to  cap  one  folly  with  another,  and  suffer  punishment  for  it  all 
the  days  of  his  life?  Come.  Surely  you  see  it,  Bellwood. 
Just  because  )^our  daughter  has  forgotten  herself  and  allowed 
liberties  that  under  no  circumstances  ought  she  to  have  allowed, 
23 


348  FONDIE   ' 

that's  no  reason  why  Leonard  D'Alroy  should  be  made  to 
suffer  for  her  lack  of  self-respect.  It's  like  putting  a  premium 
on  it.  My  goodness  ...  if  marriage  is  to  be  the  price  a 
young  fellow  in  D'Alroy's  position  has  to  pay  for  a  mere  in- 
discretion on  his  part  .  .  .  why,  he'd  have  all  the  girls  in 
the  neighborhood  at  his  heels.  You  must  see  it.  You  can't 
fail  to  see  it.  Marriage  between  Leonard  D'Alroy  and  your 
daughter  isn't  possible,  Bellwood.  The  thing  isn't  on  all 
fours." 

Yes.  The  Vicar  saw  it,  as  his  sniffles  attested.  He  saw  it 
now.  He  had  seen  it  before.  He  had  foreseen  it  and  feared 
it  from  the  first.  That  his  daughter,  out  of  consideration  for 
mere  misconduct,  should  be  elevated  to  a  position  to  which 
her  most  exemplary  behavior  could  scarcely  have  promoted 
her;  that  an  act  of  sinful  immodesty  should  entitle  her  to  the 
mistress-ship  of  Mersham,  should  make  her  the  lawful  wife  of 
Edward  D'Alroy 's  son — all  this  was  fantastic  and  unreasonable. 
So  fantastic  and  unreasonable  that  he  bowed  before  the  Rector's 
logic,  saying  submissively:  "I  know  ...  I  know.  I  never 
dreamed  ...  I  never  thought  ...  I  never  ventured  to  sug- 
gest.  .  ." 

The  Rector  was  obviously  mollified  by  such  evidence  of 
reasonableness  in  his  guest.  It  seemed,  after  all,  he  had  done 
the  Vicar  an  injustive.  The  confidence  reposed  in  him  all 
these  years  had  not  been  utterly  misplaced.  He  said:  "Come, 
come,  Bellwood.  I  knew  you  would  see  it.  I  made  sure  you 
would  distinguish  right  from  wrong,  and  take  a  proper  view 
of  the  position.  Why!" — with  the  return  of  confidence  In  his 
visitor's  good  feeling  and  perception  he  grew  almost  affable 
again — "the  fellow's  little  more  than  a  boy,"  and  seemed  to  see 
no  relevance  in  the  Vicar's  breathy  comment  that  his  daughter, 
too,  was  but  a  girl — a  child.  "All  his  college  life's  to  come. 
Marriage  ?  What !  One  might  as  well  talk  of  breeding  from 
a  two-year-old.     The  idea's  preposterous. 

"...  Besides,"  the  Rector  pointed  out,  "he's  still  a  minor. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  349 

Even  if  he  had  the  misguided  chivalrous  impulse  to  some  such 
suicidal  act — and  you  know  what  a  generous-hearted  fellow 
like  that  might  do — it  would  be  his  father's  duty  not  less  than 
mine  to  dissuade  him.  Fellows  like  Leonard  D'Alroy  have  not 
only  themselves  to  think  of;  they  haven't  the  freedom  of  these 
discontented  workingmen  that  don't  know  how  to  appreciate 
it.  They  have  their  country  and  their  social  duties  to  consider. 
Mersham  involves  heavy  responsibilities  and  obligations;  too 
heavy  for  a  boy  like  that.  One  can't  be  hard  on  him,  whatever 
he  does.  When  his  time  for  marrying  comes  on,  he  won't  be 
free  to  pick  and  choose  just  where  he  fancies,  like  ordinary  fel- 
lows. The  step  will  have  to  be  most  wisely  and  conscientiously 
deliberated.  Many  heads  will  be  necessary  to  lend  him  guid- 
ance. Pie  will  need  to  have  some  fitting  and  suitable  wife 
found  for  him  who  can  help  him  to  make  good  the  ravages 
from  which  the  estate  has  suffered,  and  restore  Mersham  to  its 
proper  position  of  eminence  in  the  county.  What  would  hap- 
pen to  us  all  if  such  a  place  as  Mersham  came  to  ruin  I 
daren't  really  contemplate.  It  would  be  disastrous  for  every- 
body. 

*'  .  .  .  There!  I  have  been  quite  frank  with  you.  I  don't 
want  to  give  you  the  least  ground  for  reproaching  me  later,  and 
telling  me  I  had  not  made  things  clear.  You  see  exactly  how 
it  is." 

Yes.  The  Vicar  saw  exactly  how  it  was.  He  saw  that  the 
laws  of  human  justice  run  only  parallel  with  the  lines  of  social 
distinction;  that  no  class  recognizes  debts  of  honor  incurred 
toward  the  class  below.  He  saw  that  between  his  daughter's 
ruined  name  and  happiness  and  the  unstooping  dignity  of 
Mersham  no  compromise  was  possible.  He  saw — through  the 
blurred  but  penetrative  eye  of  Trouble — that  nowhere  in  the 
code  of  human  justice  was  there  made  the  least  provision  for  a 
bitter  case  like  this.  His  daughter,  having  erred,  must  bear 
through  life  the  stain  and  stigma  of  her  erring;  whilst  her  not 
less  guilty  partner  passed  scot-free — scarcely  so  much  as  tainted 


350  F  O  N  D  I  E 

by  the  sycophant  breath  of  scandal  that  would  not  even  dare  to 
dull  the  polish  of  a  D'Alroy's  boots. 

Yes.  He  saw;  he  saw.  Within  his  bosom  something  hot 
and  big  and  angry  stirred,  like  a  very  righteousness  roused, 
that  struggled  to  be  free,  and  took  all  his  control  to  keep  in 
check ;  a  beast  of  vengeance,  like  a  Hon,  that  could  have  roared, 
and  worried  words  to  pieces.  In  his  distress — so  fervently  does 
Trouble  see  and  feel — he  could  have  said  things ;  he  could  have 
uttered  truths  revealed  which  would  have  caused  the  Rector 
inexpressible  surprise,  and  forfeited  forever  the  Rector's  confi- 
dence and  respect.  And  whatever  else,  and  at  whatever  cost, 
he  must  not  forfeit  these.  At  the  cost  of  truth,  of  dignity,  he 
must  subscribe  obsequiously  to  the  point  for  which  the  Rector 
stood,  and  even  whilst  losing  his  daughter's  name  retain  at 
least  the  Rector's  recognition  and  goodwill.  So,  he  dared  not 
upbraid ;  he  was  powerless  to  shift  the  burden  of  his  daughter's 
shame  to  those  other  shoulders  that  should  have  borne  it.  No 
longer  must  he  affirm  she  had  been  wronged.  All  he  had  lib- 
erty to  do  (with  her  whole  life's  happiness  at  stake)  was  to 
sigh  deplorably  and  ask:  "What  will  become  of  her?  What 
will  become  of  her?     For  her  this  spells  ruin." 

This  dark  view  of  the  situation  the  Rector  did  not  even 
argue;  he  seemed,  with  a  certain  reticent  regret,  to  grant  it. 
A  situation  had  been  created  (he  pointed  out)  which  allowed 
of  no  remedy.  "If  Leonard  D'Alroy  were  to  do  what  you 
seem  to  suggest  he  ought  to  do,"  he  said,  "his  life  would  be 
ruined  not  less  than  you  say  your  daughter's  will  be."  Be- 
sides, he  showed  the  invalidity  of  the  Vicar's  argument.  If 
Leonard  D'Alroy  had  been  the  son  of  some  parents,  the  Vicar 
would  never  for  one  moment  have  considered  the  purchase  of 
his  daughter's  honor  at  such  a  price  as  marriage.  He  would 
have  set  her  happiness  before  everything  else,  and  would  not 
have  thought  of  covering  one  evil  up  with  a  greater.  It  be- 
hooved Bellwood  to  be  fair.  Bellwood  must  recognize  the  truth 
of  what  the  Rector  said.     When  this  matter  came  to  marriage 


FOND  IE  3S1 

it  was  obvious  that  all  the  advantages  were  on  the  Vicar  s  side ; 
it  was  easy  for  a  man  to  talk  about  "duty"  when  his  own  in- 
terests were  involved  in  it.  But  the  Rector  invited  him  to 
view  the  situation  from  the  D'Alroy  standpoint,  and  put  his 
own  one-sided  feelings  out  of  count. 

To  a  conscientious  eavesdropper  it  must  have  furnished  mat- 
ter for  curious  surprise  that  throughout  this  interview  the  name 
of  God  was  never  mentioned,  nor  was  the  least  suggestion 
raised  on  either  side  of  submitting  the  problem  by  prayer  to  the 
arbitrament  of  the  Most  High.  From  first  to  last  they  argued 
with  the  obstinate  sincerity  of  men  convinced  that  they  have 
but  themselves  and  their  own  exertions  to  depend  on ;  not  as 
ministers  of  God  to  whom  God  is  no  mere  empty  name  but  a  God 
of  whose  almighty  power  and  provision  they  had  indisputable 
evidence  each  quarter-day.  Had  they  knelt  down  in  Christian 
amity  upon  the  Rector's  carpet,  with  their  elbows  on  the  Rec- 
tor's chairs  and  their  noses  elevated  to  the  Rector's  corniced 
ceiling,  and  poured  forth  their  united  prayer  to  the  Source  from 
which  all  stipends  and  preferments  come,  one  might  have 
exclaimed,  before  this  touching  picture:  "Here  at  least  are  no 
vain  believers.  Here  at  least  are  men  who  put  in  practice  what 
they  preach." 

But  no  such  illustration  was  provided.  The  Rector,  looking 
not  to  God  but  to  his  watch,  exclaimed,  "And  now!  .  .  ." 
in  a  terminative  voice;  and  the  Vicar  sniffled  responsively,  but- 
toning up  the  collar  of  his  shabby  coat.  "I  hope  you  won't 
think  I'm  dismissing  you.  But  my  friends  ..."  They  heard 
them,  in  effect,  at  that  moment;  for  fingers  strayed  over  the 
rectory  piano,  and  a  voice  skirmished  as  if,  with  a  little  more 
encouragement,  it  might  be  prevailed  on  to  sing. 

The  Vicar  said:  "No,  no.  Exactly.  .  .1  understand. 
Pray  don't  come  to  the  door." 

"Believe  me,  Bellwood,"  said  the  Rector  in  a  final  spasm  of 
commiseration,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  "I'm  heartily 
sorry  about   all   this.     Heartily   sorry.     If   anything   I   could 


3S2  FONDIE 

have  done  would  have  prevented  it  .  .  .  you  may  be  sure  I 
would  have  done  it,  for  the  sake  of  yourself  and  your  family. 
If  you'd  only  come  before!     I'd  not  the  least  idea." 

They  crossed  the  hall  together,  and  the  Rector  threw  back  the 
heavy  curtains  and  opened  the  door  upon  the  hazy  void  be- 
yond. 

"What?  Does  it  rain?  No,  no.  You're  all  right.  The 
glass  is  high.  We  shan't  have  rain  yet  a  bit — though  the  tur- 
nips are  shouting  for  it."  He  took  the  Vicar's  flabby  fingers  in 
his  own  warm  hand.  "Good  night,  Bellwood!" — and  in  a 
lower  voice:  "Of  course,  you  will  make  no  reference  to  the 
subject  of  our  talk.  That  is  strictly  between  ourselves.  Are 
you  sure  you  can  find  your  way?"  The  Vicar  interposed  a 
last  despairing  word;  "You  will  write  to  him?  You  will  do 
what  you  said  you  would  ?" 

To  be  sure;  to  be  sure.  The  Rector  would  not  forget. 
"You're  all  right,  are  you?  You  can  see?  Very  good.  I'll 
get  back  to  the  drawing-room.  They'll  wonder  what  in  the 
world's  got  me." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  Vicar's  mumbling  subscription: 
"By  all  means.  Certainly,  certainly.  I  beg  ..."  and  the 
Vicar,  blinded  with  the  Rectory  lamplight  to  which  his  lowly 
eyes  were  unaccustomed,  and  bewildered  w^ith  emotions  that 
scarce  knew  whether  they  were  of  tearful  resignation  or  bitter 
wrath,  groped  his  way  down  the  gravel  drive  beneath  the  yews 
and  maples  to  where  the  dismal,  soot-occluded  lamp  and  a  not 
less  mood-blackened  and  smoldering  Bullocky  awaited  him 
before  the  Rector's  gate. 

XXIII 

BAD  news  travels  faster  than  good,  and  cannot  be  stayed 
In   its  course.     Blanche  Bellwood  beseeching  the  car- 
rier's wife,  and  the  carrier's  wife  imposing  silence  on 
her  husband,  and  the  Vicar  admonishing  his  family  "Not  one 


FONDIE  353 

word  of  this,"  and  the  Rector  reminding  his  departing  guest, 
**This  is  strictly  between  ourselves,"  might  have  spared  their 
breath — whatever  its  expenditure  might  spare  their  apprehen- 
sion— for  the  misfortunes  of  our  fellows  are  nearer  to  us  than 
their  joys,  and  one  shall  with  as  much  vanity  invoke  the  clouds 
to  stay  as  strive  to  stop  the  progress  of  an  ill  report.  A  child 
before  a  runaway  horse  is  in  less  peril  than  the  honor  of  a  girl 
before  the  rumor  that  runs  it  down.  That  night  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  Whiwle  supped  on  Blanche  Bellwood  and  her 
trouble;  and  those  who  missed  her  for  this  meal  made  a  break- 
fast of  the  Vicar's  daughter  next  morning.  By  forenoon  she 
was  in  the  Psalmist's  hands: 

.  .  .  Woe  to  her!  She  obeyed  not  the  voice;  she  received 
not  correction;  she  trusted  not  in  the  Lord;  she  drew  not 
near  to  her  God.  .  .  . 

Her  name  acquired  the  sudden  savor  of  a  forbidden  word; 
food  for  passion  vicariously  to  feed  on;  only  to  mention  it 
with  a  laugh  formed  one  of  the  accepted  passwords  of  local 
impropriety.  Girls  subjected  to  a  too  strenuous  testimony 
of  their  swains'  affection  rebuked  them  sharply:  "Noo  then! 
Behave.  I'se  not  Blanche  Bellwood,  think  on."  All  the 
enemies  her  teeth  and  eyes  and  lips  and  laughter  had  ever  made 
rose  up  to  take  revenge  upon  her  now  that  she  was  fallen ;  say- 
ing they  had  foreseen  how  it  would  be;  and  it  was  only  likely; 
and  my  word,  if  it  was  them,  they  would  never  dare  to  show 
their  faces  anywhere  again.  It  was  incredible  the  host  of 
enemies  she  seemed  to  have,  now  when  most  of  all  she  needed 
friends.  Incredible  how  many  grievances  had  smoldered  all 
this  while;  how  many  sympathies  had  been  estranged!  Lord, 
how  near  to  Thee  the  downfall  of  a  fellow-creature  brings 
us  I 

Betimes — as  it  was  bound  to  do — the  ill  news  traveled  to 
the  wheelwright's  yard.  Not  that  same  night,  it  is  true — for 
which  the  wheelwright's  daughter  bore  it  an  undying  grudge — 


354  FOND  IE 

but  the  next  morning  found  it  there  whilst  yet  her  hair  was 
screwed  in  curl-papers,  tightly  adhering  to  her  head  like  marine 
bivalves  to  a  groyne,  and  she  took  it  straightway  into  the  kitchen 
and  tenged  it  venomously  into  Fondie  Bassiemoor  as  if  she  had 
been  a  hornet  and  this  ill  news  her  sting,  and  he  provocative 
of  it,  being  her  brother,  crying:  "A  nice  idea  an'  all!"  and 
"Noo  then,  are  you  satisfied?"  and  "She  needn't  trouble  to 
set  face  i'  yard  again.  Decent  folk  would  liever  be  wi'oot 
her." 

On  Fondie  the  dread  news  broke  with  less  effect  than  if  he 
had  not  made  acquaintance  w^ith  it  the  night  before,  and  if  he 
had  not  spent  many  of  the  so-called  "sleeping  hours"  in  reconcil- 
ing his  soul  to  this  destructive  truth  and  squaring  his  insolvent 
hopes  with  this  terrific,  unforeseen  demand  upon  them. 

"Well?"  his  sister  demanded  after  awhile,  when  his  silence 
seemed  as  if  resolved  to  defraud  her  of  the  fruits  of  her  initi- 
ative, "Thoo  says  nowt!"  She  was  seized  with  a  horrible  mis- 
giving. "Mebbe  thoo  knows  already!  Aye!"  She  plucked 
admission  from  his  faltering  gaze.  "Thoo  diz?  Thoo  can't 
look  me  fair  i'  face.  Thoo  knowed  last  night."  Her  indigna- 
tion, roused  by  the  discovery  of  her  brother's  baseness,  knew  no 
bounds,  and  would  accept  no  appeasement  from  his  troubled 
and  remorseful  lips.  "Thoo  came  i'  house  and  set  at  table, 
an'  ate  thy  supper  and  went  to  bed,  and  never  so  much  as  a 
word.  Think  shame  o'  thysen,  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  that  leaves 
his  own  sister  to  be  telt  by  other  folk  next  morning,  and  to 
say  'No,'  as  fond  as  fond,  when  they  ask  her  'Hasn't  she 
heard?'" 

Fondie,  feebly  struggling  to  reduce  her  wrath,  admitted: 
Why  ...  he  had  thought  .  .  .  but  who  knows?  .  .  .  Maybe 
it  wasn't  so  true  as  people  said. 

"Aye!  Thoo'll  side  wi'  her!"  the  injured  female  cried. 
"Thoo'U  side  wi'  onybody  sooner  than  thy  sister.  If  it  had 
been  me,  and  not  her,  I  should  'a  been  telt  last  night." 

Her  indignation,  finding  outlet  through  a  dozen  vents,  and 


FONDIE  355 

assuming  a  dozen  guises  during  the  meal,  blazed  out  again  when 
Fondie  rose,  with  silence  on  his  lips  and  disquiet  in  his  eye, 
and  replaced  the  wooden  chair  against  the  kitchen  wall.  "Diz 
thoo  mean  to  waste  yon  meat?" 

He  gazed  remorsefully  upon  the  platter.  Why!  He  was 
sorry.  There  was  more,  he  doubted,  than  his  appetite  could 
finish.  His  appetite  wasn't  in  very  grand  fittle  this  morning. 
He  didn't  know  why. 

"An'  yon  tea?     Mug's  half  full." 

He  looked  contritely  at  the  tea  in  turn,  indicated  by  his  sister's 
eye  and  forefinger,  and  as  an  act  of  penitent  conciliation  drank 
it  off.  It  tasted  of  trouble — tepid  and  sickly;  hopelessness  in 
liquid  form  that  he  had  to  gulp  at  with  all  his  strength  of  will 
and  fortitude  to  get  down.  But  he  sucked  it  out  of  sight  with 
a  conscientious  working  of  his  Adam's  apple,  for  his  sister's  sake, 
and  went  out  into  the  gray  dreariness  of  the  mist-enveloped 
yard,  and  into  the  melancholy  workshop  that  seemed  this  morn- 
ing but  a  mortuar}'  of  stricken  hopes  and  memories.  To  the 
unseeing  outer  world  he  looked  unaltered.  There  was  the 
familiar  clasp-rule;  there  the  blue  drill  trousers,  greasily  near- 
ing  the  end  of  their  week's  wear;  there  the  oily  workaday  cap. 
He  said  "Good  day";  he  answered  "Thank  ye.  How's  your- 
self?" Nobody  external  to  his  own  soul  and  gazing  at  him 
through  the  material  eye  could  have  divined  that  all  the  elabor- 
ate structure  of  his  inner  life  was  overthrown,  and  that  within 
were  ruin,  sorrow,  and  despair.  Not  even  his  sister  realized 
how  much  this  matter  meant  to  him,  and  with  what  crushing 
weight  it  lay  upon  his  heart,  although  her  woman's  instinct 
angrily  suspected  it,  and  she  probed  his  outward  composure 
critically  from  time  to  time  as  she  would  have  tested  meat  in 
the  stew-pot  with  her  fork,  saying  hard  things  about  the 
fallen  one  designed  to  prick  and  wound  him  into  some  in- 
cautious word  of  self-betrayal.  The  utmost  that  he  said  at 
length — though  sorer  tried  in  spirit  than  she  deemed — was 
her  own  name,  coupled  with  a  quiet  supplication:  "Anne  .  .  . 


356  FOND  IE 

please!"  It  was  the  only  sign  he  gave,  and  even  in  giving  It 
he  was  gone,  as  though  in  uttering  this  mournfuUest  of  protests 
he  had  perceived  afresh  his  own  unworthiness  to  speak. 

And  in  the  yard  and  in  the  workshop  it  was  the  same.  Every 
figure  that  passed  beneath  the  dusty  signboard  bore  the  same 
news.  After  the  first  perfunctory  greeting,  out  it  came.  "Why 
.  .  .  what!  It's  a  rum  'un,  this,  about  yon  Bellwood  lass!'* 
They  hammered  her  name  and  character  all  morning  upon  his 
heart,  shaping  her  this  way  and  that ;  to  this  conclusion  and  the 
other.  Every  blow  that  fell  on  her  smote  him;  every  laugh 
that  mocked  her  seared  him  too.  And  through  it  all  he  was 
silent,  preferring  to  suffer  rather  than  to  speak.  For  what 
could  he  say?  How  could  any  words  of  his  alter  the  thing 
that  was,  or  revoke  the  judgment  entered  against  her  in  the 
imperishable  scroll  of  the  Recording  Angel  above? 

So,  with  his  heart  on  fire  and  his  soul  suffering,  he  kept 
silence — though  it  was  pain  and  grief  to  him.  But  when  Joe 
Toyne  of  Near  Ketterby  came  into  the  yard  that  afternoon  with 
a  brand-new  cigar  from  the  White  Cow  in  the  fold  of  his 
oxllke  lip,  imbued  with  the  profane  and  licentious  spirit  of  the 
company  he  had  just  quitted.  Fondle  Bassiemoor's  self-control 
trembled  w^ithin  him.  He  knew  by  an  instinct  bordering  on 
revelation — ^he  knew  that  Silence  could  not  keep  silence  longer; 
that  an  avenging  wrath  was  suddenly  loosened  within  him, 
that  cried  to  him  and  to  his  conscience  and  to  his  silence  and 
his  self-control:  "Let  them  say  but  another  word  against 
her.  ..." 

And  the  other  word  was  said,  and  Joe  Toyne  said  it,  apos- 
trophizing the  wheelwright's  son  with  genial  profanity  through 
his  beer-stained  and  tobacco-browned  teeth;  and  in  an  instant 
the  brace-bit  fell  from  Fondle's  hand  and  Fondle  was  advancing 
on  him. 

"Tek  It  back!" 

The  action  on  Fondle's  part  was  so  incalculable,  and  the 
command  so  irrelevant,  that  at  first  the  offender  could  only 


FONDIE  3S7 

Stare  with  the  cigar  between  his  thumb  and  finger  and  his  mouth 
open,  like  a  half  stunned  pig;  blankly  ignorant  of  the  nature 
of  the  thing  that  was  so  summarily  ordered  to  be  "taken  back," 
and  never  for  one  moment  associating  these  words  with  the 
harmless  jocularity  that  accused  Fondie  Bassiemoor  of  the 
fathership  of  the  Vicar's  daughter's  distress — an  imputation  he 
ought  rather  to  have  been  proud  of.  Nor  was  there  anything 
in  Fondie's  mien  to  indicate  a  dignity  offended  or  an  anger 
roused.  He  advanced  with  unclenched  fists  and  with  singu- 
larly little  change  of  color.  His  teeth  were  not  set;  his  tongue 
did  not  protrude;  his  lip  betrayed  no  tremor.  But  when  he 
cried,  "Tek  it  back!"  a  second  time  his  voice  was  stronger 
and  more  peremptory,  and  neither  Joe  Toyne  nor  any  other 
round  about  within  the  wheelwright's  yard  had  any  further 
doubt  as  to  his  meaning  or  intention.  And  the  yard  grew 
curiously  and  intently  silent — more  silent  than  Fondie's  self 
had  previously  been — and  all  the  heads  within  it  turned  one 
way,  like  leaves  when  a  rainstorm  threatens,  for  Joe  Toyne's 
was  a  broad  and  brawny  figure  with  the  shoulders  of  a  Christ- 
mas bullock  and  a  fist  like  a  ram's  head;  a  fourteen-stone  bul- 
wark of  a  man,  presenting  a  chest  as  broad  and  solid  as  the 
public-house  wall. 

"Tek  it  back  thysen !"  he  roared,  when  the  force  of  Fondie's 
presumption  dawned  upon  him.  *'I  s'll  not  tek  it  back  for 
thee,  nor  nobody." 

At  least,  that  was  the  tenor  and  these  were  the  least  offen- 
sive words  of  what  he  said.  Almost  before  the  last  of  them  had 
left  his  mouth  the  thunder  that  the  turned  heads  had  been 
awaiting  broke  more  suddenly  than  the  yard  had  ever  dreamed. 
Joe  Toyne,  with  the  cigar  stuck  in  the  cleft  of  two  outstretched 
fingers,  seemed  to  reel  and  stagger  where  he  stood  as  if  the 
force  of  some  tremendous  hurricane  had  struck  him.  He  spun 
first  this  way  and  then  that,  holding  both  arms  incredulously 
before  his  face,  and,  still  with  these  two  petrified  and  useless 
members  in  the  air,  tripped  backward  all  his  length  upon  the 


358  F  O  N  D  I  E 

/ 

ground,  where  he  rolled  three  times  completely  over  and  lay- 
like  a  log. 

The  collapse  of  his  fourteen  stone  of  flesh  and  blood,  that 
shook  the  soil  it  fell  on,  was  so  swift  and  unexpected  that  for 
a  moment  not  a  sound  arose  nor  a  head  stirred.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  whole  yard  had  participated  in  the  fall,  and  could 
not  all  at  once  collect  its  shaken  faculties.  There  was  a  voice 
exclaimed,  "By  God !  Thoo's  killed  him,  Fondie."  And  there 
were  those,  indeed,  besides  his  horrified  self,  who  thought  that 
Fondie  had,  and  William  Megson  invoked  all  present  to  bear 
emphatic  witness,  *Td  nowt  to  do  wi'  it,  think  on."  But  the 
prostrate  man,  after  lying  for  a  moment  on  his  face  with  his 
head  in  his  folded  arms,  pushed  the  ground  resentfully  away 
from  him  as  though  not  in  the  least  indebted  for  its  hospitality, 
and  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  shaking  himself  sullenly  free  of 
the  attentions  of  those  who  moved  to  help  him.  The  cigar  was 
missing  from  his  fingers  and  from  the  corner  of  the  mouth 
reserved  for  it — whence,  instead,  a  smear  of  red  blood  oozed, 
with  earth  and  chips  of  wood  adhering;  and  he  spat  blood 
imprecatively  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  so  lately  lain.  Some 
believed  he  would  have  gone  for  Fondie  Bassiemoor  forthwith, 
and  were  surprised  when  he  did  not  but  only  swore;  telling 
themselves  they  thought  Joe  Toj-ne  a  fiercer  man  than  that, 
and  What?  Why,  he  could  'a  made  two  o'  Fondie.  And  as 
for  Fondie,  before  Joe  Toyne  had  time  to  swear  at  him  he  was 
the  old  familiar,  submissive,  self-depreciatory  Fondie  once  again, 
professing  horror  of  his  evil  deed,  and  begging  the  victim  of  it 
to  forgive  him  for  an  act  of  anger  so  unjustifiable  and  sinful. 
He  even  picked  up  the  fallen  remnant  of  Joe  Toyne's  cigar  and 
tendered  It  to  its  rightful  owner  with  a  contrition  touching  to 
behold,  and  sighed  resignedly  when  Joe  Toyne  smote  the  peace- 
offering  from  his  fingers  w^ith  a  murderous  blow  of  his  fist  and 
bade  him,  *'Gan  ti !" 

"If  by  going  there  I  could  undo  what  I  ha*  done,"  he  re- 
flected publicly,  speaking  in  sorrowful  vernacular,  and  renounc- 


FONDIE 


359 


ing  all  his  aspirates  as  became  one  who  had  no  further  right 
to  them,  having  so  grievously  offended,  "I'd  ask  naught  better 
than  ti  gan.  I  know  I  desarve  to  gan.  I  ought  tiv  'a  re- 
proached him;  not  tiv  'a  struck  him.  Reproach  may  turn  a 
man's  heart,  but  a  blow  nobbut  hardens  it.  One  can  tek  back 
words;  one  can't  tek  back  a  blow.  It'll  stand  again  me,  I 
know,  as  long  as  I'se  wick." 

He  spoke  the  truth.  There  are  those  who  affirm  that  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  grew  into  a  man  from  this  hour;  and  it  is  surpris- 
ing the  quantity  and  qualit}'  of  respect  accruing  to  him  from 
one  single  act  of  violence.  His  fists  won  for  him  in  half  a 
minute  a  prestige  that  all  his  strivings  after  righteousness  had 
failed  to  do;  and  if,  thereafter,  men  were  constrained  to  admit 
a  strain  of  derogatory  fondness  in  him,  they  tempered  it  with 
the  admiring  qualification,  "But,  my  wod!  He  can  use  his 
hands  an'  all  when  he  likes."  To  have  knocked  down  Joe 
Toyne  on  earth  may  have  stood  terribly  against  him  in  the 
indictment  of  Heaven,  but  here  below  it  was  argued  a  proud 
accomplishment,  and  one  of  which  no  virtue  need  be  ashamed. 
"He  wanted  knocking  doon  an'  all!"  was  the  verdict  of  not  a 
few.  "It's  a  pity  but  what  Fondie  hadn't  knocked  him  doon 
afore."  And  let  Fondie's  humility  do  what  it  could  hence- 
forth, let  it  be  as  gentle  as  any  sucking  dove,  its  gentleness  did 
not  deceive,  for  the  fist  that  has  once  smitten  may  smite  again, 
like  the  dog  that  has  once  learned  the  use  of  its  teeth;  and 
many  a  good  behavior  owed  more  to  a  timely  glance  at  Fon- 
die's fists  than  to  all  the  texts  within  the  cover  of  the  Book  of 
Books.  Even  Joe  Bassiemoor  was  mollified  by  this  manifesta- 
tion of  ability  on  the  part  of  his  son,  expressing  his  com- 
mendation in  the  form  of  a  reproof  by  saying:  "Couldn't  thoo 
'a  knocked  him  doon  anyvi^heres  but  in  yard?  Diz  thoo  want 
to  stop  all  trade  there  is?" 

And  Fondie's  sister,  not  less  stirred,  kept  alive  the  fame  of 
his  exploit,  and  fanned  its  sacred  flame  from  time  to  time  with 
the  breath  of  reproaches,  saying  (for  instance)  at  such  moments 


36o  FONDIE 

as  the  matter  of  fresh  news  might  be  in  question:  "Nay. 
Don't  ask  Fondie  owt!  Else,  mebbe,  he'll  be  knocking  some- 
body else  doon." 

And  her  admiration  of  the  force  and  capability  of  his  fists 
was  expressed  by  the  prediction,  frequently  uttered,  "Next 
time  he  diz  It  he'll  be  killing  somebody" — a  saying  that  Fon- 
die's  conscience  took  terribly  to  itself  and  pondered  over, 
acknowledging  the  awful  truth  of  the  assertion,  and  seeing 
himself  no  better  than  a  murderer  in  all  but  the  fatal  brand 
of  Cain. 


XXIV 

THAT  evening  Fondie  Bassiemoor  had  no  heart  for 
books;  no  heart  for  harmoniums;  no  heart  for  futile 
self-improvement.  His  soul  seemed  in  exile,  along  with 
those  vain  hopes  and  aspirations  that  had  once  flattered  it  and 
paid  it  court.  Learning  was  become  a  mockery,  and  good 
intent  a  scorn.  He  lacked  even  the  heart  to  change  his  work- 
day clothes,  but  sat  in  them  after  the  others  had  finished  their 
tea,  staring  at  the  hieroglyphic  tea  leaves  amid  the  liquefied 
sugar  at  the  bottom  of  his  cup  with  the  inertness  that  knows 
not  w^hat  to  do,  until  his  sister,  proffering  the  question  "Has 
thoo  done?"  whipped  away  his  cup  and  saucer,  taking  assent 
for  granted,  and  remonstratlvely  observing  that  she  could  not 
reckon  to  wait  all  night  to  wash  up  tea-things  while  folk  went 
to  sleep  over  them;  whereat  he  rose,  rebuked,  and  sadly  put 
away  his  chair.  He  went  out  to  the  workshop,  already  deep 
enveloped  in  the  November  evening  gloom,  and  closed  the 
paint-daubed  doors  behind  him,  and  lit  the  lamp  that  hung 
above  the  bench,  and  drew  a  piece  of  deal  board  from  the 
shavings  and  the  well-worn  stub  of  pencil  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  then,  as  though  initiative  failed  him  further,  re- 
lapsed despondently  into  a  sigh. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  361 

The  sigh  must  have  been  so  prolonged  as  to  partake,  almost, 
of  a  trancelike  nature,  for  it  was  not  until  the  workshop  door 
was  thrown  open  and  his  name  was  called  a  second  time,  at 
close  quarters,  that  he  shook  himself  free  of  it  with  a  start. 

"Fondie!  Hello!"  It  w^as  the  young  gentleman  from  the 
aud  hoose  who  hailed  him.  "What  are  you  .  .  .  I  say!  That 
lamp!"  For  it  was  in  the  last  convulsive  stages  of  asphyxia; 
black  in  the  face  and  grimacing  horribly;  its  contorted  flame 
gasping  for  air.  All  the  workshop  was  filled  with  the  pro- 
testing reek  of  it,  and  smuts  were  falling  like  the  damned. 
The  young  gentleman  stood  by  Fondie*s  side,  preserving  an 
attentive  silence  throughout  the  operations  of  deliverance,  and 
watched  Fondie  Bassiemoor  replace  the  resuscitated  lamp  upon 
Its  hook  above  the  bench  with  the  self-reproachful  comment, 
"I  doubt  I  wasn't  paying  attention  to  her  I  should  ha'  done, 
sir."  Both  noticed  the  localism,  and  each  had  the  thought  to 
correct  it,  but  neither  did,  and  the  young  gentleman,  after  this 
momentary  irresolution,  adverted  to  his  first  query,  "What 
are  you  doing?"  He  picked  up  the  smut-bestrewn  board  from 
the  bench  and  looked  inquiringly  at  it.  "This?"  For  there 
were  marks  and  pencilings  scored  upon  it  of  an  abstruse  and 
complicated  nature.  Fondie  gazed  at  them  too,  with  an  eye 
of  curiosity  scarcely  less  intent.  "I  doubt  I  must  have  done, 
sir." 

The  young  gentleman  inquired,  "What  is  it?" 

"Why,  it's  bad  to  tell,  sir,"  Fondie  confessed.  "It's  more 
than  one  thing  by  looks  of  it.  There  looks  to  be  a  B  in  one 
place,  and  I  think  yon's  a  steam  governor — but  I  wouldn't  be 
sure."  He  decided  that,  in  the  main,  it  merely  stood  for  scrib- 
blings,  and  could  not  claim — as  you  might  say — any  particular 
meaning  in  it  at  all,  sir;  and  the  young  gentleman  laid  the 
board  down  on  the  bench  once  more  and  explained  the  reason 
of  his  coming.  "He  wants  to  see  you  tomorrow,"  he  told 
Fondie,  "about  something;  and  I  said  I'd  better  come  and  let 
you  know  tonight.     I  said  if  I  didn't  you'd  be  away  at  Wark- 


362  F  O  N  D  I  E 

up's.  I  knew  you  were  working  there  this  week.'*  Perhaps 
the  fixed  look  of  sorrow  on  Fondie's  face  caused  him  to  fear  a 
voiceless  disapproval,  for  he  added  quickly:  "I  know  it  isn't 
true.  But  I  was  sick  of  being  indoors.  I've  been  stuck  at  it 
all  day."  He  showed  his  inky  forefinger  and  thumb  for  proof 
of  it.  "Look!  You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  By  the  light  of 
recent  happenings  the  young  gentleman's  offense — palliated 
already  by  the  frank  avowal  of  it — seemed  venial.  Fondle 
answered  with  a  voice  of  deep  and  sorrowful  conviction  that 
ft  was  not  for  him  to  mind. 

"I  wish  I'd  nothing  more  to  mind  than  that,  sir,"  he  said; 
and  in  answer  to  the  young  gentleman's  Inevitable  query, 
"What  have  you  got  to  mind?"  replied:  "I  struck  a  man  this 
afternoon,  sir." 

The  admission  was  as  unexpected  to  his  interlocutor  as  the 
act  itself  had  been  to  the  eye-witnesses  of  It. 

"You!" 

"I  don't  blame  you,  sir,"  Fondle  agreed,  his  conscience  en- 
visaging reproof  in  the  exclamation.  "I've  been  saying  same 
to  myself  all  afternoon.  It  doesn't  seem  like  me,  nor  it  doesn't 
fit  in  with  my  pretensions.     I  say  one  thing  and  act  another." 

"Did  you  .  .  .  did  you  strike  him  hard?"  the  young  gentle- 
man demanded.  At  the  far  back  of  the  question  seemed  a 
fear  that  Fondie's  answer  when  confided  would  prove  a  dis- 
appointment to  expectation.  ".  .  .  Real  hard,  I  mean?  I 
suppose  not." 

"Not  what  you  might  call  exactly  hard,  sir,"  Fondle  told 
him,  "I'm  thankful  to  say;  or  I  might  be  somewhere  else  now. 
But  it  was  middling  hard,  sir,  and  hard  enough.  And  more 
than  once.     I  knocked  poor  fellow  down." 

"You  did?"  The  tone  of  eagerness  In  the  young  gentle- 
man's voice  rose  to  exultation.  "Well  done,  Fondle!  What- 
ever for?" 

"For  a  thing  or  nothing,  sir.  For  something  he  said.  For 
a  few  words." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  363 

"What  sort  of  words?" 

"I'd  rather  be  excused  from  repeating  them,  sir." 

"Bad  words?' 

"Why,  some  of  them  were  bad  words,  and  some  of  them 
were  fair  enough,"  Fondie  specified  with  scrupulous  exactitude. 
"I've  bided  worse  in  my  time,  and  I  ought  tiv  'a  bided  these." 

"Were  they  something  about  youV 

Fondie  hesitated.  "They  were  about  somebody  else,  sir. 
Maybe  for  myself  I  shouldn't  have  minded  them  so  much." 

The  altered  tone  of  the  voice  that  murmured  "somebody 
else"  removed  what  anonymity  there  might  have  been,  and 
caused  the  young  gentleman  to  utter  an  expectant  "Who?" 

"Miss  Bellwood,  sir." 

"Blanche?  ...  I  thought  as  much.  Was  it  anything  .  .  ." 
A  sudden  confidential  urgency  seemed  to  gather  up  the  young 
gentleman's  words  like  dried  leaves  agitated  by  a  sudden  elec- 
trical gust,  and  to  sweep  them  forward  with  impetuous  haste. 
"I  say.  .  .  ,  Look  here,  Fondie.  .  .  .  That  just  reminds  me. 
There's  something  I  meant  asking  you.  That's  partly  why  I 
came  tonight."  He  had  begun  in  an  open  voice  of  frank  in- 
terrogation, but  with  each  sentence  the  voice  sank  until  it 
reached  the  level  of  his  breath  in  the  culminating  question, 
"What's  all  this  about  Blanche?" 

Fondie  said,  "We  may  hope  it  isn't  true,  sir."  And  then,  as 
though  he  deemed  such  consolation  unworthy  of  its  high  office, 
added,  "Though  I'm  jealous  it  is,  sir.  I  only  wish  I  could 
think  it  wasn't." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But  what  is  it?"  the  young  gentleman  persisted. 
"I  heard  them  talking  about  it  in  old  Smeddy's  this  morning. 
I  had  to  go  for  some  pressed  beef.  We  hadn't  anything  else 
for  dinner.  And  they  were  talking  then.  I  couldn't  make 
out  who  it  was  they  were  talking  about,  because  they  were 
talking  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  And  old  Smeddy  blew  his  nose — 
you  know  the  way — and  shook  his  head,  and  from  what  I'd 
heard  I  felt  sure  it  was  Blanche,  though  they  never  mentioned 
24 


364  F  O  N  D  I  E 

names.  And  as  soon  as  they  turned  to  go  he  told  me  what  a 
lovely  day  it  was,  and  how  blessed  we  were  in  the  weather. 
But,  of  course  ...  I  wasn't  going  to  ask  him.  I  haven't  seen 
Blanche  for  ever  such  a  long  time.  What's  it  all  about,  Fon- 
die?     Tell  me.     What's  happened?" 

"I'm  jealous  Miss  Blanche  is  i'  trouble,  sir." 

"Yes.  That's  what  they  said.  But  what  is  trouble.  I  used 
to  think  at  one  time  it  meant  somebody  dead;  but  it  means 
something  else,  too,  doesn't  it?  If  it  didn't,  why  did  they 
drop  their  voices  and  talk  as  if  it  were  something  not  to  be 
talked  about?"  He  lowered  his  own  voice  almost  beseechingly 
and  said:  "I  say.  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  it  really  means,  Fondie. 
That's  a  good  fellow.  I  know  there's  something  I  don't  quite 
understand.     It  makes  one  feel  such  a  fool." 

"Trouble,  sir,"  Fondie  expounded  with  painstaking  conscien- 
tiousness, after  modestly  depreciating  his  ability  to  make  so 
dark  a  matter  clear,  "with  a  young  unmarried  woman  gen- 
erally means  a  bairn.  Either  she's  had  one  or  she's  going  to 
have  one,  sir."  And  he  begged  the  young  gentleman  to  forgive 
the  blunt  directness  of  the  definition,  which — truth  to  tell — 
broke  upon  the  latter's  understanding  like  a  thunderclap. 

".  .  .  You  don't  surely  mean  .  .  .  not  Blanche!" 

"They  say  so,  sir." 

"But  .  .  .  look  here,  Fondie,"  the  young  gentleman  pro- 
tested, in  bewildered  consternation,  "I  thought  ...  I  thought 
every  child  had  to  have  a  father." 

"Every  child  has,  sir,"  Fondie  solemnly  affirmed.  "I  expect 
this  will  have,  an'  all." 

"But  Blanche  isn't  married." 

"No,  sir,  she  isn't  married,"  Fondie  acquiesced.  "That's 
where  trouble  is,  sir.  If  she  was  only  married  it  would  be 
different  then,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman,  still  smothered  as  it  were  in  the  cloak 
of  a  bewildering  mystery  many  sizes  too  large  for  him,  whose 
folds   appeared   too   intricate   for   his   disentanglement,    threw 


FONDIE  36s 

himself  once  again,  in  his  more  hurried  voice,  on  Fondle  Bassle- 
moor's  friendship  and  enlightenment. 

**Look  here.  Fondle.  I  say  ...  I  want  you  to  tell  me. 
I've  often  wanted  to  ask  you.  I  know  something,  of  course, 
and  I've  an  Idea  about  other  things.  But  he  never  tells  me 
anything.  I  can't  talk  with  him.  I  can't  ask  him  things  like 
that.  I've  only  got  the  dictionary  and  books.  And  the  dic- 
tionary Isn't  any  good.  It  tells  you  nothing,  except  what  you 
know.  It  only  sends  you  from  one  word  to  another  and  back 
again,  till  you're  sick  of  hunting  them  up.  It  makes  one  feel 
such  a  fool.  There  are  puzzling  things  .  .  .  some  things  In 
books  that  one  can't  understand.  I  remember  ....  in  the  Sun- 
day  Sacred,  No.  1 2 1,  'Lady  Laura's  Elopement;  or,  A  Sinister 
Secret,'  there  was  a  passage  I  couldn't  make  out.  Somebody 
had  put  a  mark  against  it  in  pencil.  It  was  where  Lady  Laura 
said  good-bye  to  the  coachman  (who  was  her  sweetheart  in 
disguise)  by  the  blasted  elder  on  the  moor.  He  asked  her  to 
keep  their  secret  faithfully  till  he  came  back  from  Australia, 
where  the  real  murderer  of  Sir  Roger  was.  And  she  said, 
'Arthur  ...  I  cannot  keep  our  secret.  Before  another  year 
has  flown  all  the  world  must  share  it.'  I  couldn't  make  that 
out  a  bit,  for  I  didn't  see  why — If  she  really  loved  him,  and 
particularly  If  he  were  Lord  Orford's  eldest  son,  as  he  said  he 
was — why  she  couldn't  have  kept  their  secret  for  three  years, 
if  he  wanted.  I  told  Blanche  so.  And  Blanche  said,  'You 
are  a  silly  fool!'  and  laughed  so  much  that  I  was  forced  to  say 
'Of  course  I  did'  when  she  asked  me,  'Don't  you  know  what 
it  means?'  I  didn't  really,  though.  Not  quite.  Sometimes  I 
thought  I  did,  but  then  something  else  turned  up  to  upset  it. 
I've  often  wanted  to  ask  you,  but  I  always  shirked  it  when 
the  time  came,  for  fear  of  looking  a  fool.  .  .  .  But  tonight 
I  thought  ...  I  made  up  my  mind.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  lots 
of  things.  It's  no  good.  I  can't  go  on  like  this — pretending. 
I  shall  have  to  know  some  time."  His  voice,  inspired  by  the 
desire  for  most  intimate  and  secret  knowledge,  sank  to  a  hum; 


366  FONDIE 

an  assiduous,  bcelike  murmur,  hovering  from  flower  to  flower 
of  the  garden  of  forbidden  wisdom,  and  sipping  thirstily  at 
these  sweet  and  deadly  nectars  deep  down  within  the  throats 
of  the  fascinating  flowers  of  life — flowers  from  which  Blanche 
Bellwood  had  already  drunk  to  her  undoing.  As  an  instructor 
in  physiology  and  interpreter  of  biogenetic  mysteries  Fondie 
was  not,  perhaps,  all-satisfying — albeit  conscientious  to  a  fault. 
His  native  modesty  shrank  from  definition,  and  he  sought  to 
wrap  too  many  garments  over  the  shoulders  of  naked  truth. 

But  at  last  sufficient  of  the  young  gentleman's  darkness  was 
made  light  to  enable  him  to  view  this  awful  thing  with  some- 
thing of  Fondie's  vision,  and  speak  of  it  with  something  of 
Fondie's  voice,  and  gaze  with  something  of  Fondie's  consterna- 
tion at  a  tragedy  involving  the  ruin  of  so  many  hopes.  That 
the  romantic  dream-world  long  inhabited  with  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor  was  irretrievably  shattered  he  perceived  beyond  a  doubt. 
His  deep  sense  of  the  magnitude  of  the  disaster  was  perhaps, 
for  him,  fascinatingly  tempered  by  the  new  knowledge  through 
which  he  beheld  it,  viewing  life  for  the  first  time  from  this 
fresh  window  that  gave  out  upon  a  prospect  pu2;zlingly 
screened  from  him  before.  And  in  this  unfettered  wideness  of 
a  purview  made  possible  for  him  by  what  had  happened  his 
spirit  may,  indeed,  have  been  for  the  moment  stirred  less  by 
despairing  sorrow  than  by  wonder;  but  he  had  no  misappre- 
hension as  to  the  despair  and  sorrow  of  his  friend.  Blanche 
was  forever  now  removed  from  him.  The  idol  of  Fondie's 
fervent  hope  and  aspiration  was  fallen;  the  object  of  his  wor- 
ship shattered.  Words  expressive  of  the  troubled  sympathies 
and  condolences  stirring  in  the  young  gentleman's  bosom  failed, 
but  tongue-tied  friendship  put  forth  an  impulsive  hand  and 
wrung  Fondie's  strong,  warm  fingers  in  the  shadow  of  the 
bench,  saying  unsteadily   (the  sacrament  being  consummated)  : 

"I  say  .  .  .  Fm  sorr>%  Fondie.  .  .  .  Fm  awfully  sorry. 
You  can't  tell  how  sorry.  .  .  ." 

Touched  by  so  beautiful  a  tribute  of  friendship,   Fondie's 


F  O  N  D  I  E  367 

voice  faltered  reciprocally  beneath  the  load  of  gratitude  it 
sought  to  bear  and  could  not. 

"Thank  you,  sir  .  .  ."  he  said.  In  his  heart  was  infinitely 
more  than  this,  but  the  sorrow  that  unseals  the  voice  of  the 
soul  locks  the  passage  of  the  lips.  For  awhile  both  he  and 
the  young  gentleman  stood  in  the  dim-lit  spaciousness  of  the 
workshop  without  movement,  and  said  no  word.  Even  the 
familiar  objects  of  their  friendship — the  clamp,  the  planes,  and 
saws  and  shavings — in  this  unnatural  light  seemed  soulless  and 
inanimate,  as  though  they,  too,  had  partaken  of  the  change,  and 
showed  it  after  their  manner.  If  the  young  gentleman  had 
not  possessed  the  memory  of  innumerable  bright  sunful  days  to 
counteract  the  present  feeling,  he  might  almost  have  been  dis- 
posed to  deem  the  workshop  a  gloomy  and  depressing  place. 
He  was  the  first  to  break  silence,  asking: 

"What  shall  you  do,  Fondie?" 

"Do,  sir?"  Fondie  answered.  Each  spoke  again  in  the  low 
but  unfaltering  voice  of  sorrow  recomposed  and  sure  of  itself. 
"I  doubt  there  isn't  a  deal  I  can  do.  I  doubt  there  isn't  a  deal 
of  good  I  could  do,  now,  by  doing  anything,  sir.  I  struck  a 
man  this  afternoon,  sir.  That's  one  thing  I  did.  And  I  came 
into  workshop  tonight.  .  .  .  That's  another.  But  whatever 
I  do,  I  see  very  well  I  can't  alter  things.  Things  will  go  on 
as  they  are  going,  sir,  for  anything  /  can  do." 

He  spoke  not  resentfully,  for  resentfulness  was  a  quality 
that  neither  Fondie's  heart  could  feel  nor  his  lips  express,  as 
the  young  gentleman  well  knew ;  but  with  a  sorrowing  fatalism 
nearer  to  despair  than  his  friend  had  ever  known  it. 

"But  you  won't  .  .  .  you'll  go  on?"  the  young  gentleman 
inquired,  with  a  certain  note  of  concern.  "I  mean  .  .  .  you 
won't  give  up.     You'll  try?" 

Even  the  slight  pause  that  followed  the  inquiry  proved  the 
validity  of  his  concern. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  Fondie  answered  dispiritedly. 

"Oh,  but  you  will,  Fondie!     Surely  you  will.     You  won't 


36S  F  O  N  D  I  E 

let  this  stop  you.     You'll  go  on — for  my  sake.     Won't  you?" 
Again  Fondie  did  not  immediately  reply. 

"I  doubt  it's  not  a  deal  of  good  me  trying,  for  anybody's 
sake,  sir,"  he  said  at  length.  "Trying  only  means  make-believe. 
At  least  it's  what  it  does  with  me,  sir.  First  of  all  it's  har- 
monium, and  I  make  believe  I  can  maybe  some  day  play  her. 
And  then  it's  building  organs — and  I  make  believe  I  can  build 
'em,  sir.  Or  it's  inventing  things,  and  I  make  believe  I  can 
invent  'em.  And  after  that  it's  books,  sir;  and  I  make  believe 
I  can  master  'em.  And  all  while  I  walk  about  and  make 
myself  believe  I'm  somebody  else,  sir,  a  deal  better  than  I've 
any  right  to  be,  as  if  make-believe  could  change  a  man.  One 
time  I'm  organist  o'  Beeminster.  I've  been  that  for  as  much 
as  a  week  together,  and  made  believe  I  was  drawing  out  stops 
and  putting  'em  back  again  every  time  I  took  up  chisel  and  laid 
her  down.  And  I've  made  believe  to  play  all  through  ^lag- 
nificat  when  I've  been  sat  at  tea-table.  Another  time  I  was 
building  a  three-manual  organ  in  Hunmouth,  sir,  that  was 
grandest  organ  in  this  part  o'  the  country,  and  brought  no  end 
of  folk  to  see  and  hear.  And  not  content  wi'  reading  books, 
sir,  I've  made  believe  to  write  'em.  I've  wrote  a  grammar, 
sir,  wi'  my  own  nam.e  on  front  page,  that  scholars  had  to  learn 
from  at  Whiwle  School.  Another  time  ...  I  was  land 
steward  at  Mersham,  sir,  thanks  to  your  goodness,  and  drove 
about  estate  in  a  high  cart,  and  had  folks  touch  their  caps  to 
me.  .  .  ."  He  laughed.  Fondie  laughed.  Not  a  laugh  of 
irony  or  bitterness,  but  a  smileless  laugh  of  almost  pitying 
acknowledgment  of  disillusioned  folly.  "This  time,  sir,  I 
almost  think,  now  I'm  myself,  I'd  better  stay  myself  for  good, 
and  make  best  of  a  bad  bargain.  I've  tried  to  make  myself 
believe  that  I  wasn't  doing  what  I  did  with  any  thought  of 
...  of  her;  and  that  it  was  just  a  bit  o'  harmless  fancy  and 
encouragement,  me  thinking  of  her  way  I  did;  and  that  I 
knew  I  wasn't  worthy  of  her,  and  nothing  could  come  of  it 
.  .  .  nor  ever  would.     But  it  seems" — his  voice  became  un- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  369 

ready  once  again — ".  .  .  It  seems  I've  been  mistook,  sir.  I 
see  it  now.  I've  let  myself  make  believe  and  make  believe 
while  it's  fair  got  master  o'  me,  and  I've  come  to  believe  It  all 
at  last.  And  now  when  It's  all  done  with,  there  seems  nothing 
else  left  me  to  believe,  or  that  I  feel  I  care  a  deal  about 
believing. 

"...  I  doubt  I  can't  put  it  any  clearer  than  that,  sir,"  he 
added  humbly. 

XXV 

THE  young  gentleman,  touched  and  troubled  at  a  sorrow 
before  whose  magnitude  his  inexperience  failed,  said 
commiserately,  "I  know  ...  I  know.  .  .  ."  He  as- 
sured Fondle  once  more  of  his  eternal  friendship  and  sympathy, 
and  with  the  remembrance  of  having  seen  this  particular 
recommendation  in  books  of  the  sort  that  Blanche  had  lent 
him,  and  the  sort  he  had  been  under  the  necessity  to  secrete 
hurriedly  beneath  his  waistcoat  on  occasions,  bade  Fondle  to 
try  and  forget. 

It  was  a  sound  and  sane  prescription,  as  Fondie's  sigh  seemed 
diffidently  to  acknowledge,  but  his  shaking  head  confessed  an 
inclination  at  fault. 

"I  wish  I  only  could,  sir,"  he  said.  "At  least  .  .  ."  he 
scrupulously  corrected  himself,  "I  wish  only  I  could  wish  to, 
sir.  But  I  can't.  That's  the  trouble  of  it.  I  can't  put  her 
out  of  my  mind,  nor  I  can't  bring  myself  to  want  to  put  her 
out  of  my  mind.  She's  been  in  all  day.  She's  been  in  since 
last  night.     She's  there  now." 

The  young  gentleman,  impressed  by  the  vividness  of  this 
final  declaration,  took  a  quick  glance  at  Fondie's  face  and  then 
away  In  the  direction  of  Fondie's  look,  as  though  the  sight 
that  Fondle  claimed  to  see  had  been  embodied  and  were  per- 
ceptible to  other  properly  directed  eyes  besides  his  own. 

"You'll  maybe  say  It's  foolish  of  me,  sir,"  Fondie  admitted. 


370  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"I  know  my  sister  thinks  so.  She  hasn't  said  so  yet,  but  she 
will.  She's  looked  It  a  time  or  two  already,  as  much  as  to  say: 
'You  see  how  little  she  thinks  about  you!  Where's  sense  of 
your  thinking  about  her?  Think  about  them  that  thinks  about 
you.  lie  a  man  and  show  a  bit  o'  pride.'  I  don't  say  she 
isn't  right.  Pride's  what  I  lack,  I  know ;  but  pride  with  me  is 
like  wine  wi'  some  folk,  sir.  A  little  on  it  gets  into  my  head. 
Sharp,  It  docs.     Less  I  give  way  to  pride,  and  better. 

".  .  .  Besides" — he  knew  he  had  the  encouragement  of  this 
approving  friend's  silence,  and  went  on  no  less  confidently  than 
if  the  young  gentleman  had  invited  him  by  word — **.  .  .  how 
can  I  put  her  out  o'  my  mind  now?  I  couldn't,  sir.  It  would 
seem  like  thrusting  a  body  out  o'  doors  just  when  she  needs  all 
help  and  kindness  one  can  give  her.  Not  that  I  can  give  her 
a  deal,  sir,  I  know,  fixed  as  I  am.  And  not  that  she'd  want  a 
deal,  I  doubt,  from  such  as  me.  But  after  thinking  of  her  i' 
way  I  have  done  all  these  years,  I  can't  think  of  her  i'  any  other 
way  just  because  trouble's  befallen  her;  and  not  to  think  of 
her  at  all  is  no  better  than  ingratitude,  sir.  I've  been  proud 
enough  of  her  company  when  she  was  good  enough  to  give  it 
me,  and  nothing  that's  happened  can  alter  that.  A  kindness  is 
a  kindness,  whatever  may  come  after.  She  was  i'  workshop  not 
above  a  week  ago.     Sat  on  bench  again  where  you  are,  sir." 

"Here?"  The  young  gentleman  indicated  a  spot  interroga- 
tively with  his  finger. 

"Why  .  .  .  maybe  a  bit  more  to  yon  way,  sir,"  Fondle  told 
him,  filled  with  the  conscientious  spirit  of  precision  In  such  a 
sacred  matter.  "Just  about  where  yon  tin  of  axle-grease  is. 
She  sat  there  biggest  part  of  an  hour,  sir.  Talking  most  o' 
time.  I  little  thought  then  .  .  ."  They  both  relapsed  into 
silence,  gazing  at  the  tin  of  axle-grease  that,  not  above  a  week 
ago,  had  been  the  Vicar's  daughter. 

"What  will  happen  to  her?"  the  young  gentleman  inquired 
in  a  voice  almost  of  awe. 

"It*s  bad  to  tell,  sir,"  Fondle  answered,  pulling  himself  from 


I 


FONDIE 


371 


lethargy  with  an  effort.  "Very  likely  nothing.  That's  what 
happens  in  a  deal  o'  such  cases.  And  nothing's  as  bad  to  bide, 
at  times,  as  anything  I  know,  sir.  But  she'll  have  to  bide  it, 
best  wav  she  can.  They  say  .  .  .  she's  took  it  very  bad  to 
heart.  . '.  ." 

"What  do  they  generally  do?  People  in  trouble,  I  mean — 
like  her." 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  any  particular  rule  for  it,  sir," 
Fondie  decided.  "Mayhap  there  ought  to  be.  Mayhap  there 
will  be  in  time.     Sometimes  they  get  wed." 

"Couldn't  Blanche?" 

"She  could,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman  drew  enlightenment  from  Fondie's 
doubting  countenance  rather  than  from  his  words. 

"You  mean,  j'ou  think  she  won't.  Of  course.  I  was  for- 
getting. She'd  have  to  marry  him.  And  he  couldn't  marry 
anybody  who's  got  into  trouble,  could  he?  He  couldn't  marry 
her  after  she's  disgraced  herself." 

"Not  a  gentleman  like  him,  sir,"  Fondie  concurred.  "Hum- 
ble folk  might,  but  it's  different  with  them.  It  doesn't  matter 
a  deal  what  humble  folk  does.  Nobody  takes  any  notice  o* 
them.  They  can  please  themselves,  as  you  may  say,  sir,  and  do 
what's  right,  without  considering  anybody.  Nothing  depends 
on  'em.  But  a  gentleman  has  other  duties  to  think  on.  He'll 
have  yon  Hall  to  think  on,  for  one  thing,  I  expect,  sir." 

The  young  gentleman  interposed  protestingly  under  his 
breath:  "But  it  isn't  his.  It  doesn't  belong  to  him.  He  has 
no  right  to  it.     It's  mine,  Fondie." 

The  reminder  came  so  unexpectedly  as  to  deprive  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  for  a  moment  of  the  powers  of  reply.  It  was  true. 
He  had  overlooked  the  rightful  ownership  of  Mersham;  to 
such  extent  does  custom  reconcile  us  even  to  injustice. 

"To  be  sure.  It  isn't  his,  sir,"  he  said  apologetically  when 
speech  returned.  "It's  yours.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Nobody 
should  know  that  better  than  me.     It  doesn't  belong  him:  it 


372  FONDIE 

belongs  you.  But  even  if  you  were  to  take  It  away  from  him," 
he  paused  to  consider  sadly,  "...  I  doubt  If  it  would  make 
a  deal  o'  difference.     He  wouldn't  marry  her." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  doubt  he  wouldn't,  sir.  I  think  he  never  meant  marry- 
ing her.  She  was  just  a  pastime  wi'  him.  Nothing  no  more. 
I  doubt  if  he's  even  written  to  her  since  he's  been  away." 

The  young  gentleman  broke  out  indignantly,  "The  cad!" 
Instances  of  such  perfidy  and  betrayal  recurred  to  his  mind. 
He  remembered  conduct  of  this  base  sort  in  the  Sunday  Sacreds 
that  Blanche  had  lent  him.  Couldn't  Fondle,  for  instance, 
give  the  offender  a  sound  thrashing?  That  would  be  all  right, 
wouldn't  it?  That  would  be  a  revenge  after  Blanche's  heart. 
And  Fondle  was  the  man  to  do  It.  There  was  nobody  any- 
where who  could  do  it  better;  of  that  the  young  gentleman  was 
assured.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  aged  third  person  singular, 
he  would  have  helped  Fondle  with  pleasure;  but  Fondie  knew 
how  he  was  fixed. 

His  enthusiasm  for  this  poetic  retribution  waned  a  little  at 
the  sight  of  Fondle's  dubious  face. 

"In  books,  sir,"  Fondie  decided,  "it  might  do  well  enough. 
I'm  not  saying  it  wouldn't.  I've  heard  tell  of  it  being  done 
an'  all.  But  that  was  by  young  woman's  brother,  and  I  don't 
seem  to  remember  that  a  deal  of  good  came  of  it."  On  the 
whole,  he  said  (with  due  respect  to  the  young  gentleman's 
proposal),  it  was  not  a  course  his  judgment  favored.  "I've 
struck  one  man  today,  sir,"  he  declared;  "and  I  should  be 
loath  to  strike  another.  They'd  ask  what  business  it  was  o' 
mine,  and  I  doubt  I  should  be  hard  set  on  to  tell  'em,  sir. 
Folk  might  say  I  was  jealous  it  was  him  that  had  gotten  her 
into  trouble,  i'stead  o*  me,  and  that  I  should  'a  done  same  If 
I'd  had  same  chance.  ..."  A  slight  spasm  seemed  to  ruffle 
the  composure  of  his  face,  as  when  a  sudden  wind  blows  across 
still  water.  ".  .  .  I'm  not  going  to  deny  it,  sir.  I  have  my 
feelings.    I  know  themy  and  how  bad  they  are  to  bide  at  times. 


FONDIE 


373 


I  don't  know  his,  that  may  be  twice  as  bad  to  bide  for  any- 
thing I  can  tell.  And  if  I  haven't  had  his  opportunities,  how 
am  I  like  to  know  what  use  I  should  have  made  of  'em?  Op- 
portunity tries  us  all,  sir;  we  can't  tell  what  we're  made  on 
without  that.  An'  I  always  try  and  think  what  Book  tells 
us:  'Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged' — though  there's  moments 
when  I  think  ower  late.  It's  not  for  one  man  to  judge  an- 
other, let  alone  punish  him." 

To  these  sentiments  the  young  gentleman  listened  with  a 
most  reverent  and  attentive  silence,  as  if  they  had  been  inspired 
passages  from  Holy  Writ.  Their  justice  seemed  incontestable, 
but  it  was  the  transcendent  sort  of  justice  to  which  his  own 
humanity  could  only  bow,  without  the  hope  of  ever  attaining. 
He  confessed  that  Fondie's  goodness  was  incomprehensible. 
"I  don't  know  how  you  do  it,  Fondie.  I  couldn't.  I  can't. 
I  don't  suppose  I  should  if  I  lived  to  be  a  hundred."  And 
while  Fondie  disclaimed  all  title  to  this  imputed  goodness  and 
assessed  his  demerits  according  to  a  much  more  human  and 
imperfect  standard,  the  young  gentleman's  thoughts — suffused 
as  they  were  with  admiration  of  and  allegiance  to  his  friend — 
hovered  perplexedly  about  the  vague,  unformulated  question: 
Was  the  goodness  of  the  wheelwright's  son  too  scriptural  for 
earthly  usage?  Could  his  very  virtues  be  the  secret  of  his 
unsuccess  with  Blanche?  Had  he  failed,  indeed,  because  of 
the  deficiency  of  those  faults  that  prove  men  peccable  and  hu- 
man; without  which  they  lose  the  attachment  that  mankind 
feels  towards  fellows  imbued  with  its  own  frailties:  frailties 
that  testify  to  a  common  kinship,  and  form  a  bridge  for  sym- 
pathies? But  no.  It  could  not  be.  Fondle  was  human. 
Fondie  was  magnificently  human ;  strong,  brave,  generous,  and 
faithful.  Fondle  had  but  this  very  afternoon  given  glorious 
pledge  of  how  wonderfully  human  he  was.  The  thought  re- 
assured him. 

"Was  he  as  big  as  you,  Fondie?"  he  suddenly  demanded. 

"Was  who  as  big,  sir?"  the  wheelwright's  son  inquired  with 


374  F  O  N  D  I  E 

some  surprise,  for  his  discourse  and  the  young  gentleman's 
thoughts  had  parted  a  while  since  at  the  cross-roads. 

"The  man  you  knocked  down." 

"He  stood  bigger,  sir.  That's  only  consolation  I  have.  If 
he'd  been  same  size,  or  smaller,  I  don't  like  to  think  what  I 
might  be  feeling  now."  Nevertheless  it  was  (he  confessed)  a 
poor  consolation  for  any  man  to  lean  on  for  support,  and  he  put 
no  stress  on  it;  and  the  young  gentleman  wondered  again. 

But  if  he  wondered,  the  scepticism  pertained  solely  to  the 
spiritual  parts  of  him,  and  involved  the  loyalty  of  his  friend- 
ship not  at  all.  Fondie  was  his  friend ;  his  best  friend.  And 
more  than  ever  did  he  feel  the  pulse  of  friendship  thrill  within 
him  when,  at  the  moment  of  departure,  he  took  Fondie's  hand 
again  in  his,  and  Fondie  thanked  him  in  the  Fondian  voice  of 
absolute  sincerity  and  gratitude  for  his  coming  there  that  night. 

"It's  done  me  more  good  than  I  can  say,  sir,"  Fondie  told 
him.  "Thinking  things  over  doesn't  give  relief;  it  only  seems 
to  make  'em  worse  to  bide.  All  last  night  and  all  today  I've 
been  thinking  .  .  .  and  yet  if  you'd  asked  me  when  you  came 
in  what  I'd  been  thinking,  or  what  settlement  I'd  come  to,  I 
couldn't  ha'  said  for  certain,  sir.  Thoughts,  when  you  can't 
confide  'em  and  there's  nobody  you  can  tell  them  to,  seem  to 
fester  inside.  You  can't  think  thoughts  away;  you've  got  to 
speak  'em  to  somebody  that  knows  you  and  understands  you, 
sir.  After  awhile  there's  so  many  of  them  you  feel  as  if  your 
head  wasn't  big  enough  to  hold  'em  all.  .  .  ."  He  thanked 
his  visitor  fervently  again.  "I  think  I  shall  sleep  sounder  to- 
night, sir,  and  maybe  I  shall  see  things  better  and  more  resigned 
in  the  morning." 

"And  you  won't  give  up,  Fondie?"  his  friend  exhorted. 
"You'll  go  on.  You'll  stick  at  it?  ...  Of  course,  not  for 
her.  You  can't  do  that,  I  know.  That's  over.  But  for  me. 
For  my  sake.  .  .  .  And  because — why,  because  you  never  know 
what  may  come  of  it.    Some  day  .  .  .  somebody  else  .  .  ." 

It  was  left  delicately  at  that.     He  gripped  Fondie's  hand 


FONDIE  37S 

with  encouraging  suggestiveness,  and  Fondle  gripped  his  hand 
in  return  with  the  tempered  gratitude  that,  in  this  particular 
respect  at  least,  had  no  illusions  and  no  hopes;  saying:  'Til 
see,  sir.  I  don't  deserve  you  should  take  trouble  over  me  you 
have  done.  Least  I  can  do  is  to  say  I'll  try  my  best.  I  can't 
say  more.  I  dursn't  promise,  for  promises  are  easier  made 
than  kept.  I  shouldn't  like  to  trust  myself  to  a  promise  made 
i'  state  Fm  in,  .  .  . 

".  .  .  Don't  trouble  with  door,  sir.  I  shall  be  following  you 
as  soon  as  Fve  blown  lamp  out.  There's  nothing  much  more 
to  keep  me  in  workshop.  Does  old  gentleman  baud  up  well? 
I'm  thankful  he  does.    Good  night  again,  and  thank  you,  sir." 


XX\^I 

AND  now,  even  upon  the  least  of  the  participants  in  this 
tragic  history  some  influence,  less  or  greater,  of  the  thing 
that  had  befallen,  fell;  transforming  the  features  of 
once  familiar  life,  and  imposing  the  necessity  of  a  new  adjust- 
ment of  the  individual  towards  it  and  a  fresh  compromise  of 
self  with  fact.  All  life  is  made  up  of  such  compromises,  con- 
scious or  unconscious,  and  the  essence  of  trouble  consists  in  this: 
that  it  destroys  the  compromise  to  which  we  are  accustomed, 
and  on  which  (as  we  believe)  our  very  peace  and  happiness 
depend,  and  leaves  us  without  shelter  or  protection  against  the 
stern  new  facts  for  which  the  old  self  in  its  old  improvident 
security  made  no  provision. 

In  the  shadowy  seclusion  of  the  aud  hoose  the  young  gentle- 
man readjusted  his  views  by  the  standard  of  the  new  knowl- 
edge, and  sought  to  bring  this  and  the  thing  that  had  befallen, 
and  his  own  life.  Into  a  tranquil  conformity.  On  his  pillow, 
and  at  work  before  the  bench  or  in  the  wheelwright's  yard. 
Fondle  Basslemoor  strove  not  less  earnestly  to  find  the  necessary 
attitude  of  being  that  should  conciliate  this  hard,  tyrannic  fact 


376  FOND  IE 

and  win  back  for  him  some  measure,  at  least,  of  the  peace  that 
he  had  lost.  With  his  habitual  modesty  he  did  not  ask  for  it 
all,  only  a  penitential  portion  of  it ;  a  mere  modicum,  sufficient 
to  enable  him  to  discharge  his  earthly  duties  and  show  a  cheer- 
ful spirit  in  the  home.  And  if,  indeed,  it  had  been  possible  for 
him  to  ease  the  Vicar's  daughter  of  her  dread  burden  and  sus- 
tain the  whole  weight  of  her  sorrow  on  his  own  shoulders,  he 
would  have  asked  no  greater  favor  of  Heaven.  But  Providence 
countenances  no  such  heroic  procedure,  knowing  full  well  that 
if  it  did  man's  sublime  self-sacrifice  would  put  its  wrath  to 
shame,  and  bring  the  whole  system  of  divine  chastisement  to 
naught.  And  the  Vicar,  by  the  use  of  prayer  and  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  strove  like  the  young  gentleman  and  Fondie  Bas- 
siemoor  to  find  a  new  spirit  to  assimilate  the  new  circumstance, 
which  should  sustain  his  broken  dignity  and  spare  his  feelings 
in  the  parish.  To  this  last  delinquency  of  his  daughter  his  lips 
made  no  allusion,  though  the  parish  waited  anxiously  for  the 
least  word  that  should  justify  dilation  on  the  subject,  but  all 
he  did  was  to  speak  with  a  sorrowing  and  significant  voice  of 
Trouble,  as  though  Trouble  were  now  an  intimate  member  of 
the  family,  whose  health  gave  cause  for  the  deepest  concern. 
Even  the  parishioners,  to  some  extent,  came  under  the  influ- 
ence of  this  trouble  of  which  they  themselves  formed  part,  and 
were  under  the  necessity  to  form  fresh  compromises,  saying:  "It 
was  awkward  when  a  body  met  Vicar  nowadays.  A  body 
scarce  knew  what  to  say." 

The  attitude  of  Blanche's  elder  brother  was  expressed  in  a 
haughtier  and  less  conciliatory  demeanor  towards  Whi\^le,  as 
if  he  sought  to  sever  himself  from  all  dependence  on  its  com- 
ment or  opinion.  He  wore  his  hat  at  an  angle  suggesting 
contemptuous  superiority  to  surroundings,  and  bestowed  no 
more  attention  on  his  father's  parishioners  than  he  could  help. 
As  for  the  Bullocky,  such  subtleties  of  conduct  being  beyond 
him,  he  elected  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain  by  ungar- 
nished  candor,  asking  his  colleagues  if  they  had  heard  about 


FOND  IE  377 

"our  lass,'*  and  volunteering,  without  reserve,  such  information 
on  the  topic  as  lay  in  his  power  to  contribute.  And  as  for 
Blanche  .  .  . 

As  for  Blanche,  not  by  one  adjustment  alone  could  she  escape 
the  awful  consequences  of  her  conduct,  and  adapt  her  life  to 
take  up  and  sustain  this  weight  of  fact  imposed  upon  it.  A 
hundred  adjustments  were  necessary;  adjustments  from  day 
to  day,  from  hour  to  hour,  from  minute  to  minute,  from  mood 
to  mood.  Always,  within  herself,  she  was  a  self  escaping  from 
a  self;  a  self  that  fled  from  a  self  that  followed;  a  self  that 
reasoned  with  a  self  that  wept;  a  self  shackled  to  a  self  in 
fetters  and  seeking  desperately  to  be  free. 

And  first,  having  wept  until  she  could  weep  no  more  and 
exhausted  every  terror  that  the  ingenuity  of  Trouble  could 
devise,  so  that  her  soul  seemed  destitute  of  fear  as  her  eye  of 
tears,  she  appealed  to  the  old  Blanche  in  her  to  come  forth 
from  her  miserable  coward's  hiding-place,  and  the  old  Blanche 
came  forth,  brave  with  the  courage  of  exhaustion,  like  the 
appetite  too  sick  for  hunger.  And  she  asked  the  old  Blanche 
if  the  old  Blanche  was  frightened  of  them — by  whom  she 
personified  Whivvle — and  the  old  Blanche  responded,  "No." 
And  she  said  to  the  old  Blanche:  "Don't  let  them  think  you 
care  for  them.  Show  them  you  aren't  frightened  of  them,  if 
they  think  you  are."  And  to  give  the  old  Blanche  confidence 
she  said:  "Besides  .  .  .  they  don't  know.  Nobody  knows. 
Nobody's  been  told  yet — only  the  carrier's  wife;  and  she's 
promised.  It's  a  secret.  So  what's  there  to  be  frightened  of? 
Go  out  and  let  people  see  you  don't  care  for  them,  and  aren't 
frightened  what  anybody  thinks.     It's  no  business  of  theirs." 

The  old  Blanche  suggested  with  a  white  face:  "Supposing 
anybody  stops  me!     What  if  anybody  asks?'* 

She  answered:  "They  won't  ask  you.  And  if  they  do,  you 
can  say,  'What's  it  got  to  do  with  them?'  If  you  don't  go 
out  soon,  people  will  get  started  to  talk,  and  think  it's  true, 
and  say  you  dursn't." 


378  F  O  N  D  I  E 

And  the  old  Blanche,  stung  by  this  insinuation,  said:  "I'll 
go.  I'll  go  on  bicycle.  Then  they'll  see  I  aren't  frightened 
and  don't  care  for  them." 

And  the  old  Blanche  went,  though  it  took  her  an  eternity  to 
get  ready;  and  she  peered  from  all  the  vicarage  windows  in 
turn,  to  make  quite  sure  the  moment  was  propitious  for  depar- 
ture; and  to  let  folk  see  how  little  frightened  she  was,  she 
rode  as  far  as  Mersham  Park  and  back  and  all  through  the  main 
street,  ringing  her  bell  at  the  corner,  past  Fondle  Bassiemoor's 
signboard,  and  home  again  at  a  high  speed,  with  shameless  color 
in  her  cheeks  and  her  white  teeth  flauntingly  displayed;  and 
Whivvle  gave  a  belated  gasp  at  sight  of  her,  for  she  rode  very 
swiftly,  and  Whivvle  could  scarce  believe.  Whivvle,  pro- 
nouncing judgment  on  her  effrontery,  said :  "Took  it  very  bad 
to  heart,  indeed!  My  wod!  It  dizn't  look  like  taking  any- 
thing to  heart.  Trouble's  wasted  on  her,  one  mud  think. 
There's  no  learning  syke  lasses  a  lesson.  No;  nor  two  lessons 
won't  teach  'em.  Flittering  about  road,  just  as  though  noth- 
ing had  happened.  One  wondered  her  father  would  let  her. 
A  body  would  'a  thought  she'd  ha'  tried  to  look  a  bit  sober  for 
her  credit's  sake.  Lawks-a-mussy !  She  might  think  she'd  done 
something  to  be  proud  on." 

And  as  for  the  shameless  object  of  their  condemnation,  she 
flung  aside  the  bicycle  that  Fondle  Bassiemoor  had  given  her — 
flung  it  aside  in  the  shed  at  home  as  if  she  hated  it  and  would 
never  be  friends  with  it  again ;  and  bit  her  lip  till  all  her  teeth 
were  printed  in  it,  in  a  paroxysm  of  shame  and  revolted  pride ; 
and  wept  the  bitter  tears  with  which  this  bitter  ride  had 
plenished  her.  For  her  eyes  and  ears  were  filled  with  the  un- 
bearable evidences  of  her  published  guilt,  culled  by  her  mis- 
guided courage :  of  scornful  looks,  or  looks  averted ;  of  a  strange 
and  unfamiliar  Whivvle  Instinct  with  the  spirit  of  contempt ;  a 
Whivvle  that  turned  upon  her  a  hard,  unwelcoming,  unfriendly, 
and  exultant  face. 

She  had  but  one  hope  now;  one  lorn,  despairing,  and  per- 


FONDIE 


379 


sistent  hope  that  clung  to  Mersham,  as  the  starved  and  home- 
less hound  haunts  the  very  threshold  of  a  persecutor,  seeking 
succor  even  from  the  hand  that  threatens  it.  Her  letter  had 
miscarried.  It  had  not  reached  him.  He  had  not  understood  it. 
Trouble  had  been  too  diffident  to  make  its  meaning  clear. 
Trouble  had  not  emphasized  itself  enough.  Trouble  should 
have  written  to  him  in  ink ;  not  in  pencil.  But  now  the  Rector 
was  writing  all  would  be  well.  He  could  not  fail  to  write 
back  to  the  Rector.  He  could  not  say  to  the  Rector  it  was  not 
true.  It  was  true.  He  knew  it  was  true.  He  knew ;  he  knew. 
He  knew  he  was  the  first  ...  the  verj^  first.  He  knew  there 
was  nobody  else.  And  he  could  not  desert  her  now.  ...  He 
would  do  something.  Something  would  be  done  to  take  this 
heavy  sorrow  from  her.  It  was  only  fair.  She  could  not  be 
left  by  him  like  this  to  people's  scorn — just  becfause  she  had 
done  what  he  asked  her. 

Day  by  day  she  listened  for  the  postman's  coming  with  her 
very  soul  in  her  ears;  manufacturing  his  footsteps  out  of  mi- 
nutest sound,  fearful  and  expectant.  Day  by  day  she  heard  her 
brother  and  her  father  discuss  the  situation  and  herself,  in  which 
(as  befitting  one  disgraced)  she  had  no  further  share.  Day  by 
day,  succeeding  the  slam  of  the  front  door  that  announced  her 
brother's  return,  she  heard  his  stereotyped  inquiry.  **Well?" 
and  her  father's  mumbled  answer  to  it,  and  the  expostulatory 
comment  that  ensued.  "Look  here!  What's  being  done?  It 
Isn't  good  enough.  Something'll  have  to  be  done.  We  can't 
go  on  being  kidded  about  like  this.  How  was  it  left?  Is  he 
going  to  write  to  you,  or  have  you  got  to  write  to  him  ?"  And 
Invariably  the  Vicar's  vague  and  dubious  replies  provoked  her 
brother's  anger,  only  too  ready  to  be  roused.  *'You  haven't 
half  let  him  have  It.  You  should  have  told  him  straight.  I 
told  you  to.  I  thought  you  were  going  to.  Why  didn't  you?" 
To  which  her  father's  feeble  equivocation  would  reply:  "I  did 
the  best  I  could.  It  was  a  terrible  thing  for  any  father  to 
undertake.  You  don't  seem  to  realize.  .  .  .  One  imprudent 
25 


38o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

word  and  all  my  labor  would  have  been  in  vain.  I  had  to  be 
most  careful  not  to  offend  him.  Before  long  we  shall  need  all 
the  few  remaining  friends  we  have.  Had  my  counsel  only  been 
followed  sooner  .  .  .  had  only  my  family  respected  the  advice 
their  father  gave  them!"  "Family?"  his  son  protested.  "What 
have  /  to  do  with  them?  Don't  mix  me  up  with  her.  I've 
spoken  to  her  a  jolly  sight  straighter  than  you  ever  did.  I've 
told  her  to  shut  up  till  I'm  sick  of  it,  but  she's  said  she  didn't 
care,  and  she  wasn't  frightened  of  me,  and  I  wasn't  her  father. 
She  cheeked  me  as  she  liked,  and  you  let  her.  You  never 
backed  me  up.  I  told  you  she  was  getting  too  thick,  long  ago, 
but  you  wouldn't  take  it  in.  She's  just  done  as  she's  liked. 
If  I  told  her  I  should  tell  you,  all  she's  said  was:  'Tell  him. 
I  aren't  frightened  of  him.  He  daren't  say  anything  to  me. 
You  dursn't.'  "  And  when  the  Vicar,  betraying  the  ravages  of 
trouble  in  the  weakness  with  which  he  submitted  to  his  son's 
reproaches,  alluded  feebly  to  "example,"  his  son  demanded: 
"What's  my  example  got  to  do  with  her?  I  aren't  a  girl.  If 
she'd  only  done  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  she'd  have  had 
no  time  to  bother  her  head  with  me.  Other  fellows,  that 
haven't  got  sisters,  don't  set  examples,  and  why  should  I,  just 
because  of  her?** 

So,  for  a  whole  week — which  means  a  week  and  more — her 
destiny  hung  trembling  in  the  balance;  and  her  brother  said, 
"Well?  .  .  ."  and  her  father  answered,  "No.  .  .  .  Nothing!" 
and  her  starveling  hope  clung  piteously  to  the  rectory  gate  at 
Mersham,  dying  for  food,  and  yet  through  shame  and  fear 
devoid  of  any  voice  to  beg.  And  at  the  expiration  of  that  time, 
when  hope  had  almost  begun  to  find  sustenance  in  silence, 
and  to  believe  that  something  was  being  done  and  help  was 
close  at  hand — hope  died,  a  very  violent  and  dismal  death. 

No  letter  came.  The  Rector  did  not  write,  for  writing  has 
(as  every  rector  knows)  a  dozen  disadvantages.  Nor  did  the 
Rector  call,  for  calling  (in  such  circumstances)  has  as  many, 
and  he  had  no  intention  to  be  involved  in  any  domestic  episode. 


FONDIE  381 

or  to  be  invited  to  view  the  tears  and  unrestrained  prostrations 
of  misguided  girlhood.  He  had  contrived  to  know  as  little  as 
possible  of  the  Vicar's  daughter  during  all  these  years,  and  had 
succeeded,  with  the  greatest  facility,  in  forgetting  her  after  each 
rare  accidental  meeting;  and  this  was  certainly  no  time  to 
remake  an  acquaintance  that  his  rectorial  care  had  kept  so  long, 
successfully,  unmade.  Nor  did  he  send  by  word  of  mouth  to 
ask  the  Vicar  to  be  so  good  as  to  call  upon  him  some  afternoon 
in  passing — which,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  would  have 
had  for  Blanche's  father  the  peremptorlness  of  a  command,  and 
sent  him  off  to  Mersham  in  the  vicarage  buggy  the  moment 
dinner  was  over — for  the  Rector  did  not  wish  his  servants  to 
comment  upon  the  singularity  of  the  fact  of  Mr.  Bellwood's 
having  paid  two  visits  to  the  Rectory  within  the  short  space  of 
ten  days.  It  might  give  a  false  Impression.  But  he  contrived, 
by  a  process  known  best  to  himself,  to  ride  the  Vicar  down  on 
the  uninhabited  outskirts  of  his  parish,  between  Baulk  Farm 
and  the  old  whitewashed  Whiwle  toll-cottage.  He  overtook 
the  Vicar's  bowed  shoulders  laboring  homeward,  and  looked 
from  his  saddled  eminence  upon  the  Vicar's  greasy  collar  and 
shabby  hat  with  an  eye  apparently  so  remote  from  any  thought 
or  expectation  of  the  kind  that  not  until  he  had  ridden  by  did 
it  awake  to  consciousness  of  a  something  familiar  in  the  stoop- 
ing and  pedestrian  figure.  He  threw  up  his  riding  crop  with  a 
spasmodic  and  interjectlonal  "Ah!"  and  reined  in  his  horse, 
half  turning  in  his  saddle  with  one  hand  upon  its  croup.  "That 
you,  Bellwood?  ...  I  thought  I  couldn't  be  mistaken."  He 
spoke  of  the  weather;  of  the  roads;  of  the  state  of  the  land; 
of  the  hunting — of  which  he  had  had  one  day  last  week — in 
brief,  crisp  sentences,  like  dog  biscuits,  that  he  broke  up  and 
threw  down  to  the  listener  by  his  stirrup,  with  the  condescen- 
sion that  imparts  opinions  but  does  not  ask  them;  whilst  the 
Vicar,  agreeing  effusively  to  all  he  said,  and  troubled  at  heart 
as  to  what,  in  his  daughter's  best  interests,  this  providential  en- 
counter demanded  of  him,  made  ready  to  clear  his  throat  at  the 


382  F  O  N  D  I  E 

first  propitious  opportunity.  Then  the  Rector  touched  up  his 
horse — to  the  consternation  of  the  Vicar,  asking  himself  what 
possible  account  of  the  meeting  he  could  make  acceptable  to  his 
son — and  seemed  as  good  as  gone  already,  when  suddenly  he 
drew  his  horse  up  again  as  though  with  thought  of  some  forgot- 
ten thing,  and  said:  "By  the  way,  Bellwood.  .  .  ."  This  time 
he  did  not  turn  quite  round  upon  his  saddle,  but  waited  until 
the  Vicar  had  made  good  the  space  between  them,  and  stood  by 
his  stirrup  once  more.  ".  .  .  Referring  to  that  matter  about 
which  you  called  to  see  me  .  .  ." 

The  Vicar,  vastly  relieved  for  his  son's  sake,  and  welcoming 
even  this  mere  allusion  with  the  effusiveness  of  gratitude,  said: 
"Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you.  It  was  on  my  mind  .  .  .  but 
I  hesitated  to  call  you  back,  not  knowing  what  engagement  you 
might  have." 

"I  wrote,  as  I  told  you  I  would,"  the  Rector  informed  him. 

The  Vicar,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  murmured  he  was 
sure  of  It.    "I  never  for  a  moment  doubted  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  In  fact,  some  correspondence  has  recently  passed  be- 
tween us  on  the  subject.  I  had  a  letter  from  Leonard  D'Alroy 
the  other  day.  He  writes  like  a  gentleman,  as  I  expected.  No 
one  could  ask  for  a  more  open,  straightforward,  honorable  let- 
ter. Not  the  least  shirking  or  evasion.  After  such  a  letter  it  Is 
impossible  for  any  sane,  impartial  person  to  doubt  for  one  mo- 
ment. Thank  goodness,  it  clears  him!  I'll  admit  now  to  you 
it's  taken  a  load  off  my  mind.  The  w^hole  business  has  cost  me 
more  trouble  and  anxiety  that  I  care  to  confess.  I  am  only 
sorry  for  you,  Bellwood.  .  .  ." 

Out  of  a  haze  of  palpitating  hopes  and  apprehensions  that 
subsided  into  gray  despair,  the  Vicar's  voice  emerged,  faltering 
and  incredulous: 

".  .  .  He  denies  it?" 

"Denies  It?"  The  Rector's  voice  was  almost  Indignant  in 
its  tone  of  repudiation.  "Ah!  I  see  what  you  mean."  The 
voice  became  more  placatory.     "In  that  sense,  certainly  not. 


FONDIE  383 

He  does  not  deny  It.  I  told  you  he  would  deny  nothing  that 
was  the  truth.  I'll  confess  it's  made  me  terribly  anxious.  I've 
been  as  nervous  as  a  kitten  these  last  few  days,  until  I  got  his 
letter.  It's  too  big  a  burden,  Bellwood,  to  place  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  a  mere  boy.  I  know  by  myself  what  he  must  have 
passed  through.  He'd  be  asking  himself  what  he  ought  to  say 
and  do — not  for  his  own  sake ;  Leonard  wouldn't  consider  that ; 
but  for  the  sake  of  his  father^  and  Mersham,  and  all  his  friends. 
Poor  chap,  poor  chap!  I'll  wager  it  has  given  him  a  terrible 
time.  But,  thank  goodness,  that's  all  over  now!  I'll  admit 
I'm  sorry  he  couldn't  have  denied  the  whole  thing,  but  Leonard 
D'Alroy  is  not  that  sort  of  fellow;  that  sort  of  subterfuge  isn't 
in  the  D'Alroy  blood.  He  admits,  with  a  courage  that  might 
well  serve  as  a  lesson  in  truth  and  duty  to  the  lower  orders 
to-day,  that  he  did  by  some  means  make  your  daughter's  ac- 
quaintance at  the  Flower  Show.  He  does  not  explain  how,  nor 
would  I  insult  him  by  asking.  Their  meeting  on  this  occasion 
can  only  have  been  of  the  briefest.  A  minute  or  two ;  certainly 
not  more.  And  he  admits,  with  praiseworthy  reluctance  to 
say  anything  calculated  to  reflect  on  your  daughter,  that  as  a 
result  of  this  chance  acquaintanceship  they  did  see  one  another 
subsequently.  For  this  thoughtless — and  quite  innocent — con- 
duct on  his  part  he  expresses  his  sincere  regret,  and  I  gather 
(though  the  fine  fellow  is  far  too  true  a  gentleman  to  say  so) 
that  it  was  forced  upon  him  more  by  your  daughter's  insistence 
than  by  his  own  inclinations.  I  remember  now,  in  fact,  that 
she  was  at  one  time  almost  a  weekly  attendant  at  the  Mersham 
morning  service.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  ...  I  never 
for  a  moment  associated  the  two  ideas.  I  put  the  thing  down 
to  a  natural  interest  in  the  D'Alroys  and  Mersham.  Lots  of 
people  came  for  the  same  reason. 

*'.  .  .  But  as  for  this  other  business,  Bellwood,  I'm  thankful 
to  say  his  conduct  is  in  marked  contrast  to  your  daughter's. 
He  treats  her  with  the  most  scrupulous  respect;  too  much, 
I've  even  been  disposed  to  think.     He  lays  no  charge  against 


384  F  O  N  D  I  E 

her.  He  imputes  nothing  against  her  character.  In  fact,  he 
judges  her  absolutely  by  himself  and  his  own  blameless  feelings, 
and  does  her  the  credit  of  saying  that  no  act  of  the  least  impro- 
priety took  place  between  them.  His  frankness  makes  me  re- 
proach myself  that  I  ever  for  an  instant  doubted  him,  and  I 
have  already  written  to  tell  him  so,  and  assure  him  that  he 
has  gone  up  in  my  estimation,  and  that  his  father  has  reason 
to  be  proud  of  him.  He  may  have  acted  foolishly  and  indis- 
creetly to  a  certain  extent — who,  in  his  position,  hasn't?  In- 
deed, to  that  extent  he  takes  the  blame  upon  himself  and  speaks 
in  terms  of  real  sorrow  for  the  boyish  deception  practiced  on 
me.  But  as  for  the  other  matter  ...  I  can  see  that  the  mere 
suggestion  of  it,  delicately  though  you  may  be  sure  I  made  it, 
has  roused  him.  He  stands  on  his  mettle  there.  He  says — 
what  I  myself  pointed  out  as  tactfully  as  possible  at  our  in- 
terview— that  he  formed  but  one  of  your  daughter's  apparently 
very  numerous  acquaintances,  and  that  it  is  to  these,  rather 
than  to  him,  you  ought  to  turn." 

His  words  rode  down  the  Vicar's  faltering  words,  as  his  horse 
outwore  the  Vicar's  shambling  legs.  Beneath  them,  and  some- 
times stemming  their  current  by  an  expostulatory  monosyllable 
or  two,  like  stones  beneath  a  running  brook,  the  Vicar's  voice 
at  intervals  was  to  be  heard.  "My  daughter?  .  .  .."  "Ter- 
rible!" "Cruel  accusation.  .  .  ."  "Monstrous.  .  .  ."  "Do 
you  suggest  ..."  But  his  nature  was  too  stunned  for  wrath  ; 
expostulation  served  him  no  more  adequately  than  his  feet. 

"Well.  .  .  ."  The  Rector  gathered  his  bridle  and  took  in- 
terest in  the  distant  landscape  once  again — the  perspective  of 
low  hedgerow^s  that  lost  itself  in  the  dark  woodland  fringe  be- 
tokening Mersham,  where  all  the  tragedy  of  Blanche  Bellwood's 
ruined  life  seemed  to  be  written,  black  and  soulless,  against  the 
faded  orange  of  the  setting  sun.  ".  .  .  There's  nothing  more 
to  be  done  that  I  can  see.  As  I've  said  before,  I'm  sorry,  Bell- 
wood;  very  sorry  for  you.  If  I  were  not  so  sorry  I  might  be 
tempted  to  say  more.    I've  always  held  you  in  esteem.    But  you 


FONDIE  38s 

mustn't  blame  me.  I'm  as  Innocent  as  this  horse  .  .  ."  and  he 
slapped  his  left  hand  resoundingly  upon  the  animal's  glossy  neck. 
His  eye  described  a  distant  car  approaching  on  the  road,  and  the 
bridle  in  his  right  hand  tightened,  for  he  had  no  wish  to  be 
observed  in  close  and  protracted  conversation  with  the  father 
of  public  Trouble,  lest  a  false  deduction  might  be  drawn  from  it. 
"Well.  .  .  ."  That  was  his  leavetaking.  He  did  not  add 
**Good  day"  or  any  other  conventional  last  word,  but  touched 
his  horse  into  action  and  rocked  away  upon  the  grassy  margin 
of  the  road.  "Come  then!  Come,  pet!  Steady,  mare.  .  .  . 
Come,  my  beauty." 

Behind  him,  on  the  roadside  where  once  his  stirruped  leg 
had  been,  the  Vicar  of  Whivvle  stood,  disconsolate  and  motion- 
less as  a  mawkin  [scarecrow]  in  the  spring  corn,  gazing  after 
the  receding  horseman  with  red  and  watery  eyes,  as  though  a 
cruel  wind  had  stung  them  and  made  them  blind  even  to  God. 
After  this,  all  was  over.  His  daughter  had  dishonored  his  gray 
hairs.  He  would  never  be  invited  to  conduct  divine  week-night 
service  at  Mersham  any  more.  Not  until  the  lumbering  cart 
came  up,  with  Dod's  brother  Barnard  in  it,  did  he  throw  off 
the  lethargy  that  lay  like  a  sack  upon  his  shoulders,  and  pick 
his  way  back  to  the  narrow  footpath  and  resume  his  interrupted 
homeward  walk.  Homeward?  No,  not  homeward.  "He  had 
no  home,"  the  moving  lips  with  bitterness  protested.  No  home 
henceforth  save  that  last  long  narrow  home — to  which  his  every 
footstep  led  him — where  his  dear  wife,  mercifully  spared  this 
trouble  that  would  have  killed  her,  kept  wait  for  him  already 
beneath  the  churchyard  sod. 


386  F  O  N  D  I  E 


XXVII 

THUS  was  the  last  hope  slain,  as  all  Whivvle  knew  by 
nightfall;  for  Dod's  brother  Barnard  had  been  witness 
of  the  momentous  colloquy  upon  the  road,  and  had  seen 
the  Vicar  of  Whivvle  left  standing  like  a  signpost,  pointing  the 
way  to  Nowhere;  and  his  eyes  (when  he  drove  up  to  him)  were 
red ;  and  he  moved  into  the  pathway  like  one  asleep,  talking  to 
his  beard,  and  paid  no  heed  to  cart  or  driver  as  they  went  by. 
And  that  night,  too,  the  altercation  between  the  Vicar  and  his 
son,  induced  by  the  customary  "Well?"  that  Blanche's 
brother  asked  with  the  papery  cigarette  upon  his  lip,  was  more 
acute  than  it  had  been  since  the  first  vehement  inquest  over 
Blanche's  bed.  From  the  refuge  of  silence  Blanche  was  dragged 
forth  without  mercy  to  undergo  once  more  the  pangs  of  cross- 
examination,  and  be  made  contrite  and  rebellious  by  turns  be- 
neath her  brother's  bullying  questions.  Look  here,  now, 
Blanche!  They  wanted  no  kid.  Was  young  D'AIroy  the  liar, 
or  was  it  her?  Which  was  it?  It  was  him.  Good.  Her 
brother  held  no  brief  for  his  sister's  veracity,  and  flatly  said 
so,  but  her  asserverations  compelled  his  grudging  acceptance 
of  her  word,  and  in  his  noisy  altercation  with  his  father  this 
point,  at  least,  was  taken  as  the  basis  of  the  situation.  The 
front  door  boomed  out  like  a  minute-gun  when,  unconvinced 
at  last,  and  unconvincing,  he  took  impatient  leave  to  tell  Mi 
Foster  what  a  fool  the  guv'nor  was,  and  how  he  let  himself 
be  kidded  about  by  anybody,  and  if  he'd  only  been  him  this 
afternoon  he  would  have  had  a  good  mind  to  give  the  Rector 
one  under  the  ear.  And  the  Vicar,  feebly  defending  himself 
against  his  son's  aspersions,  had  complained  indignantly  of  his 
son's  unreasonable  injustice,  demanding:  What  could  he,  the 
Vicar,  do?  What  could  he,  the  Vicar,  say?  He  was  in  a 
most  delicate  and  horrible  situation.  He  had  his  office  to  con- 
sider; his  dignity  as  the  head  of  this  important  parish  to  think 


EONDIE  387 

of — for  his  family's  sake  no  less  than  his  own.  Make  them  sit 
up?  Yes;  it  was  easy  to  say,  "Make  them  sit  up;  show  them; 
let  them  have  it."  But  how  was  he  to  make  them  sit  up,  and 
show  them  and  let  them  have  it,  without  bringing  the  very 
roof  that  sheltered  them  about  their  ears?  Lawyers'  hands? 
Take  the  matter  into  court?  Publish  to  the  world  his  daugh- 
ter's disgrace  ?  Let  everybody  know  what  had  happened  ?  Did 
his  son  actually  mean  that?  He  shrank,  horrified,  from  the 
mere  suggestion.  His  son  did  not  know  what  he  was  talking 
about.  Lawyers'  hands?  Lawyers'  hands  meant  money. 
Where  was  the  money  coming  from?  What  was  his  paltry 
stipend  against  the  social  influence  of  Mersham?  Once  let 
him  get  across  with  the  Rector  of  Mersham,  and  the  Rector's 
friends,  and  his  status  in  this  diocese  was  gone.  He  feared  it 
was  gone  already;  but  not  all — not  all.  If  this  became  a  pub- 
lic scandal  his  position  would  be  made  intolerable.  Think  of 
the  rural  dean  ...  the  archdeacon.  .  .  .  Did  they  want  this 
awful  business  bringing  right  to  the  Bishop's  ears? 

.  .  .  No,  no.  He  saw  no  escape  from  it.  They  were  at  their 
mercy.  They  must  bow.  They  must  submit.  It  was  God's 
judgment  on  their  dreadful  ways  of  life  and  disregard  of  His 
Commandments.  It  was  God's  heavy  punishment  for  his  chil- 
dren's disobedience  to  their  father's  will.  All  that  lay  within 
their  Christian  power  now  was  to  try  and  hush  the  matter  up ; 
to  live  respectable,  godly,  well-ordered  lives,  and  so  give  enmity 
no  chance  against  them.  Let  them  pray  for  strength  to  bear 
it,  and  fortitude  to  live  it  down.  .  .  . 

And  in  that  same  hour  in  which  her  hope  was  slain ;  in  that 
same  instant;  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  though  the  dread 
last  trump  of  the  fifty-first  verse  of  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the 
First  Epistle  of  Paul,  the  Apostle  to  the  Corinthians,  had 
sounded,  Blanche  changed,  and  all  her  world  with  her.  The 
world  she  lived  in  henceforth  was  the  illimitable  world  of  her 
own  sorrow. 

From  that  day  forth  she  faded  from  the  sight  of  Whivvle, 


388  F  O  N  D  I  E 

like  some  once  vivid  sunbeam  from  the  western  sky.  Her  place 
in  church — that  a  restless  and  expectant  congregation  kept 
under  curious  scrutiny  each  Sabbath  day — remained  unfilled; 
the  pew  (whose  name  was  legion)  that  had  once  seemed  not 
too  spacious  for  her  radiant  being,  yawned  void  and  narrow, 
like  an  unsealed  grave.  The  Vicar,  challenging  her  absence 
after  the  first  occasion,  on  his  return  from  church,  and  ask- 
ing why  she  had  not  been,  was  met  with  the  unanswerable 
question,  "...  How  could  I?"  in  a  voice  of  burning 
shame. 

How  could  she  ?  To  be  sure.  He  had  forgotten.  He  had 
never  thought.  It  was  true.  Such  attendance  on  his  daughter's 
part  could  never  count  as  worship;  could  never  aspire  to  be 
dignified  into  the  loftiness  of  example.  Other  daughters,  sim- 
ilarly situated,  had  worshipped  there;  but  not  his  own.  Her 
very  name,  even,  as  though  sharing  in  the  offense  of  her  person, 
and  bearing  the  disgrace  her  body  had  brought  upon  it,  dropped 
out  of  existence  from  the  Vicar's  speech  or  hearing.  Parochial- 
ly he  never  spoke  of  Blanche,  and  none  but  the  witless  or  the 
ignorant  or  the  malign  ever  asked  him  how  his  daughter  did. 
All  that  discretion  allowed  itself  was  to  express  the  hope  that 
things  were  going  on  well  at  home,  to  which  the  Vicar,  if  he 
did  not  quietly  bow  his  head,  answered  with  a  vaguely  fervent 
*'Thank  you.  .  .  .  Thank  you  .  .  ."  as  if  the  question  were  a 
tribute  of  esteem,  calling  for  gratitude  rather  than  an  answer. 
All  other  phases  of  domestic  trouble  he  had  committed  feebly 
to  the  confidence  of  the  parish,  but  not  this.  This  was  some- 
thing his  lips  could  not  utter,  that  sealed  them  as  the  rock 
seals  the  sepulcher.  Everything  pertaining  to  domestic  life  was 
swallowed  up  in  silence;  an  earthquake  might  have  engulfed 
the  vicarage  for  all  the  reference  he  made  to  it.  When  he 
spoke  of  "home,'*  he  implied  Heaven.  The  nearest  he  ever  came 
to  speaking  of  his  daughter  was  by  means  of  a  sigh;  or  the 
sorrow  that  had  befallen  him,  by  a  use  of  his  handkerchief. 
And  though  Whivvle  respected  the  sanctity  of  a  father's  feel- 


FONDIE  389 

ings,  and  copied  with  respectful  fidelity  the  expression  of  the 
Vicar's  face  and  the  melancholy  of  the  Vicar's  voice  and  the 
sympathetic  tiredness  of  the  Vicar's  manner  in  speaking  with 
him,  Whivvle  chafed  at  heart  beneath  the  rigor  of  its  exclusion 
from  colloquial  participation  in  the  Vicar's  grief. 

"Diz  Vicar  think  we  don't  know?"  Whivvle  demanded,  when 
the  Vicar  had  been  and  sighed  and  gone  away  again  without  any 
word  that  Whivvle  wished  to  hear  on  any  topic  nearer  to  its 
heart  than  Heaven,  or  its  own  state  of  health  and  soul.  "My 
wod !    Vicar  mun  think  we're  fond." 

"He  can  ask  after  oor  daughters,"  Whivvle  protested.  "He 
can  an'  all.  As  if  oors  was  the  only  ones  that  wanted  asking 
after.  What  aboot  his?  She  can  do  wi'  as  much  asking  after 
as  them — an'  more." 

And  Whivvle  followed  curiously  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Vicar 
from  house  to  house,  to  ask  what  the  Vicar  had  said  when  he 
called,  and  if  the  Vicar  had  named  it  yet,  and  the  answer  was 
invariably  in  the  negative,  or  so  vexatiously  near  as  to  be  indis- 
tinguishable;  and  Whivvle  said:  Why,  no!  Whivvle  never 
thought  he  would  'a  done" ;  and  Whivvle  deprecated  such  close, 
deceptive  ways.  "Vicar  reckons  to  call  himself  a  Christian," 
said  Whivvle.  "If  that's  all  he  can  do  to  prove  it  it's  a  pity. 
Comes  and  shares  in  all  our  bits  o*  trouble,  he  does,  when  we 
have  any,  and  nobody  begrudges  him.  But  when  trouble  comes 
his  way,  does  he  think  to  share  it?  Not  him.  If  we'd  had  to 
depend  on  him  for  all  we've  been  telt,  we  should  'a  got  to  know 
a  lot  by  noo !    My  wod,  we  should ! 

"It  makes  one  feel,"  said  Whivvle,  "as  if  one  didn't  want  to 
tell  him  nothing.  Lawks,  I'se  been  as  near  telling  him  so,  at 
times,  as  a  toucher.  If  he'd  only  name  it,  an'  done  with,  it 
would  be  something.  Anybody  can  see  fair  enough  it's  on  his 
mind  all  time." 

But  the  Vicar  never  named  it.  He  only  sighed,  and  blew  it  ; 
and  carried  it  perpetually  on  his  bowed  shoulders,  like  a  peddler 
stooping  beneath  his  pack.     And  little  by  little  this  spirit  of 


390  F  O  N  D  I  E 

disconsolate  reticence  infected  the  Vicar's  home  behind  whose 
secretive  walls  Blanche  Bellwood  lived  and  moved. 

Whivvle  saw  her  not,  but  from  behind  the  shelter  of  the 
stagnant  curtains  she  still  saw  Whivvle,  inconceivably  remote 
and  distant,  like  some  faint  star.  She  heard  the  far-off  puff 
and  whistle  of  the  trains — those  trains  that  had  once  upon  a 
time  been  her  daily  friends  and  comrades,  bearing  her  riotously 
to  Hunmouth  in  the  first  flush  of  her  exuberant  girlhood.  She 
heard  the  bark  of  once  familiar  dogs,  each  one  well  known  to 
her  by  voice  and  name.  She  heard  the  daily  drone  of  the 
threshing  engine,  and  knew  by  its  altered  intonation  in  whose 
stackyard  it  stood.  She  heard  the  commotion  of  horses,  and 
the  so-called  music  of  the  hounds  when  the  hunt  invaded  Whiv- 
vle— sounds  from  the  unreal  world  she  had  once  visioned  in  her 
brief,  transitory  dream. 

At  first,  constituting  the  four  walls  of  her  father's  house  her 
cloister,  she  had  immured  herself  with  the  bitterness  of  a  sorrow 
that  renounces  all;  darkening  her  heart,  and  making  her  soul  a 
cell  for  cramped  wretchedness  to  occupy.  She  sought  not  peni- 
tence, but  self-revenge ;  willful  suffering,  not  contrition. 

And  then,  because  human  nature  is  what  it  is,  and  stronger 
than  the  human  will,  outwearing  with  equal  impartiality  its 
good  resolutions  and  its  bad,  her  ears  began  again  to  hearken 
and  her  eyes  to  see,  and  her  heart  to  take  heed  of  the  features 
of  this  circumscribed  world  in  which  misfortune  flung  her.  The 
bosom  has  more  hopes  than  one;  life  more  interests.  Whivvle 
might  be  closed  to  her,  but  here  was  a  whole  house;  here  were 
beds  to  make  and  rooms  to  clean  and  a  kitchen  to  cook  in  and 
meals  to  get  ready.  If  life  debarred  her  from  its  joys,  it  did 
not  withhold  from  her  its  duties.  Those  much  despised  and 
long  neglected  subjects  of  her  father's  preaching  had,  it  seemed, 
their  use  and  solace  after  all,  though  it  needed  sorrow's  eyes  to 
see  them.  Out  of  the  ruins  of  her  old  life  could  she  not  yet 
contrive  to  make  a  humbler  and  a  happier?  Little  by  little  she 
began,  very  gradually  first  of  all  for  fear  they  should  remark 


FOND  IE  391 

the  sudden  change  in  her  and  challenge  her  good  intentions, 
and  so  lead  her  to  deny  and  renounce  them,  and  bring  all  this 
reformation  to  naught.  She  began  in  that  frequent  starting- 
place  of  such  reformation  and  beginnings,  her  own  bedroom, 
and  did  what  all  these  j-ears  she  had  resolved  and  yet  not  done 
before.  Hers  was  the  first  footfall  heard  upon  the  stairs  after 
the  Swiss  alarm  clock  by  her  pillow  had  sounded.  It  cost  the 
wounded  debris  of  her  pride  more  pangs  than  any  knew  to  make 
her  brother's  breakfast  wait  each  morning  on  his  coming,  and 
his  tea  punctiliously  attendant  on  his  return,  but  she  did  it; 
and  so  adaptable  is  human  nature  that  after  the  first  few  days 
he  accepted  the  innovation  as  if  it  had  been  the  custom  of  a  life- 
time, and  descried  no  novelty  or  merit  in  it.  And  gradually, 
in  like  manner,  her  disgraced  and  exiled  spirit  attached  itself 
to  the  once  detested  house  as  to  a  fellow  in  adversity.  Whilst 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  bicycle  rusted  beneath  its  shed  where  she 
had  flung  it,  the  kitchen  that  the  carrier's  wife  had  viewed  with 
such  domestic  consternation  brightened  like  a  smile;  its  grate 
and  fender  and  polished  fire-irons  vied  with  any  that  the  parish 
could  have  shown.  She  cooked  with  care  and  conscience — by 
scale  and  the  clock;  and  put  into  most  exemplary  practice  all 
that  in  her  thoughtless  but  not  unobservant  hours  of  indolence 
she  had  seen  done  and  laughed  at  for  the  doing  in  the  carrier's 
kitchen.  Each  room  in  the  house  had  its  duly  ordered  day. 
The  gazeless  windows^  with  the  stagnant  curtains  draping  them 
belied,  at  least,  the  reformed  cleanliness  of  all  beyond,  and  be- 
trayed no  inkling  to  the  outer  world  of  the  new  and  active 
spirit  at  work  within.  Now  and  then,  as  though  with  the 
impulse  to  revive  a  fading  memory,  Blanche  touched  with  her 
finger-tip  the  keys  of  the  piano  that  had  produced  such  discord 
in  the  old  domestic  life;  but  the  note  once  faintly  sounded,  she 
replaced  the  lid  with  the  apprehensive  haste  of  one  who  fears 
to  be  heard. 

As  for  her  trouble,  though  it  constituted  all  her  world  and  all 
her  acts  and  thoughts  subsisted  in  it,  it  was  as  much  a  thing  of 


392  F  O  N  D  I  E 

silence  here,  within  her  father's  walls,  as  in  the  world  beyond. 
For  all  the  mention  that  her  father  made  of  it  since  the  falling 
of  that  final  blow,  she  might  have  never  sinned  or  brought 
dishonor  on  his  name.  Like  one  stentorian  and  commanding 
voice  that  awes  all  other  voices  into  silence,  so  this  one  great 
trouble  had  seemed  to  hush  all  other  troubles  into  peace,  and 
imbue  the  vicarage  with  an  atmosphere  of  strange  and  almost 
sacred  calm.  Towards  her  father  her  heart  developed  a  great 
gratitude.  He  never  reproached,  never  upbraided  her;  never 
added  fuel  to  the  fires  of  remorse  forever  burning  In  her  bosom, 
or  treated  her  with  that  repudiative  sternness  she  was  conscious 
she  deserved.  On  the  contrary,  his  attitude  towards  her  was 
one  of  diffident  respect;  not  studied,  but  Instinctive.  It  seemed 
as  if  this  destructive  blow  had  broken  all  those  chafing  intimacies 
that  had  constituted  their  relations  in  the  past,  and  made  them 
strangers  now,  dependent  on  those  considerations  and  polite- 
nesses that  strangers  use.  When  her  father  spoke  to  her  by 
name,  it  was  in  such  a  voice  as  he  might  have  addressed  to  some 
parishioner's  daughter;  for  the  things  she  did  for  him  he  thanked 
her  scrupulously.  At  times  the  very  goodness  of  his  treatment 
of  her  fed  remorse  and  reawakened  her  fears,  that  questioned: 
Did  he  really  understand?  Or  could  it  be  he  had  Incompre- 
hended,  or  forgotten,  and  his  questionless  acceptance  of  her 
service  was  but  the  proof  of  a  slumbering  intelligence  which 
would  again  need  to  be  rudely  roused? 

His  daughter  knew — ah!  was  she  likely  for  one  moment  to 
forget  it? — that  this  peace  within  the  house  was  all  illusory; 
that  It  marked  but  the  silence  before  the  storm ;  that  the  thun- 
ders and  lightnings  It  preceded  and  foretold  must  still  inex- 
orably be  loosed,  and  the  rains  of  Heaven's  wrath  beat  down 
upon  her  head. 

And  so,  striving  to  ward  the  future  from  her,  and  living  each 
day  as  If  it  had  no  fellow,  she  sought  absorption  in  her  little 
world.  Industry  alone  could  lend  captivity  a  purpose  and  save 
her.    From  morning  until  night  her  object  was  to  be  employed. 


FONDIE 


393 


She  cooked  and  set  and  cleared  away  the  meals.  She  did  not 
share  them.  Always  she  had  had  her  meal  before  or  meant  to 
take  it  after,  or  was  not  hungry,  when  the  time  came.  Save  for 
some  task  demanding  it  she  rarely  sat  down,  and  never  in  the 
living  portion  of  the  house  or  in  her  father's  presence.  Her  life, 
even  within  these  intimately  circumscribing  walls,  found  space 
to  move  and  keep  apart,  immersed  in  its  own  duties  and  the 
ever-present  sense  of  its  unworthiness,  that  sought  to  keep  its 
acts  and  thoughts  and  sorrows  unobtrusive  and  unshared. 


XXVIII 

DAYS  drew  in;  nights  lengthened.  Time,  kept  moving 
by  a  world  of  clock-weights,  pendulums,  and  watch- 
springs,  ticked  inexorably  onward.  Christmas  came 
and  wreathed  the  pillars  of  the  church  with  dismal  evergreens; 
but  no  Blanche  mounted  to  the  pinnacle  of  reckless  ladders, 
or  said  "Damn !"  and  sucked  her  fingers  when  the  holly  pricked 
them.  It  was  a  changed  and  sad  and  altered  Christmas,  with 
nobody  to  call  Fondie  Bassiemoor  a  silly  fool  or  tell  him  he 
was  sickening.  Other  Christians  awoke,  and  awakened  each 
other  in  mutual  turn,  and  shook  hands  and  said,  "A  Merry 
Christmas!" — but  the  one  Christian  worth  waking  in  Fondie's 
Christmas  world  slept  unawakened  like  the  very  tombs,  neither 
wishing  nor  being  wished.  Whiwle,  grown  impatient,  for  a 
sight  of  her,  to  the  pitch  of  complaint,  said:  "Why!  Surely 
she'll  show  hersen  on  syke  a  morning  as  this,  and  not  let 
folk  think  they've  offended  her.  It's  not  oor  doing,  hooiver. 
She'll  have  to  show  hersen  some  day.  She  can't  live  shut  up 
i'  yon  spot  all  her  life."  And  Whiwle — the  distaff  side  of 
Whiwle,  versed  in  the  mjrsteries  of  its  sex's  heart — declared: 
"Why,  no!  She'll  be  as  proud  of  it  when  it  diz  come  as  all 
rest.  She'll  want  to  show  hersen  then,  at  any  rate,  for  bairn's 
sake,  and  hear  folk  praise  it  and  say  how  fine  it  is.'* 


394  F  O  N  D  I  E 

But  she  disappointed  their  hopes.  She  disappointed  even 
Fondie  Bassiemoor's  hopes,  faint  and  hopeless  though  they  were. 
Her  place  was  empty.  Not  even  her  brothers  went  to  church 
to  celebrate  Christ's  birthday  and  sing  "Peace  on  Earth,  Good- 
will toward  Men."  Only  the  Vicar  trudged  to  church  and 
back  again,  with  no  more  spring  in  his  gait  or  joy  in  his  shoul- 
ders or  festivity  in  his  eye  -than  if  the  occasion  had  been  a 
Quadragesimal  Sunday  and  the  dinner  awaiting  him  roast  beef 
instead  of  goose ;  shaking  hands  of  resignation  with  parishioners, 
and  disseminating  watery  good  wishes  for  a  reason  to  whose 
significance  he  seemed  a  total  stranger.  Whivvle,  studying  his 
progress  and  noting  the  employment  of  his  feet,  commented, 
"Aye!  Aud  man  begins  to  show  it.  It's  shook  him  a  deal." 
And  some  said,  "You  may  depend.  He  dizzn't  blaw  his  nose 
wi'  same  strength  he  did." 

From  Mersham  came  news  that  the  young  Squire  was  not 
spending  his  Christmas  at  the  rectory  as  expected,  and  that  it 
was  uncertain  whether  he  would  be  able  to  pay  any  visit  to  the 
estate  before  the  next  term. 

In  January  the  carrier's  daughter  was  married  at  last ;  sooner 
than  her  parents  had  anticipated.  The  Vicar  performed  the 
ceremony  in  his  faded  cassock  and  dingy  surplice,  and  was 
moved  to  tears  in  the  middle  of  it  (he  was  always  fond  of 
the  carrier's  daughter,  they  say),  and  could  not  proceed  until 
he  had  found  his  handkerchief.  Afterwards  he  went  to  bid  the 
bride  Godspeed  and  God's  blessing  at  the  home  of  her  parents, 
where  the  photographer  from  Merensea  stood  all  prepared  to 
take  the  portrait  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom  and  bridal  party 
in  full  regalia  in  front  of  the  kitchen  garden,  just  avoiding  the 
water  tub.  The  three  Whivvle  bells  rang  in  honor  of  the  bride 
for  nearly  twenty  minutes,  and  the  Vicar  trudged  homeward 
after  many  humid  handshakes  with  a  special  large  slice  of  wed- 
ding cake  in  his  overcoat  pocket  that  the  carrier's  wife  had  pri- 
vately pressed  on  his  acceptance.  It  got  over  a  difficulty  that 
had  been  discussed,  and  was — in  its  essence — a  delicate  and 


FONDIE 


395 


thoughtful  act;  but  even  the  most  delicate  and  thoughtful  acts 
can  cause  pain,  and  whether  the  blade  of  the  knife  be  blunt  or 
keen,  its  function  is  to  cut. 

This  same  month,  too,  though  nearer  the  end  of  it,  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  sustained  a  great  loss.  It  was  a  loss  for  which  he 
had  been  to  some  extent  prepared,  but  even  the  most  anticipated 
troubles  take  preparation  unaware.  Ever  since  the  day  suc- 
ceeding his  conference  with  the  young  gentleman  in  the  lamp- 
smoked  workshop  he  had  known  that  the  occupants  of  the  aud 
hoose  were  likely  to  take  leave  of  Whivvle  for  some  time  in  the 
new  year.  The  young  gentleman,  almost  as  sorrowful  as  Fon- 
die at  the  prospect  that  such  a  separation  evoked,  confided  that 
this  going  might  even  be  for  good.  The  Third  Person  Singular 
(it  seemed)  was  growing  very  restless;  very  fretful  and  difficult 
to  please.  He  protested  they  were  wasting  time;  they  were 
letting  the  precious  moments  slip  from  under  their  feet.  They 
were  dreaming;  they  were  dreaming.  Since  the  Mersham 
Flower  Show,  and  all  those  consequences  it  entailed,  he  had 
chafed  continually  against  the  isolation  and  restrictions  of  their 
home.  Other  people  went  to  Oxford — people  of  the  most 
wrongful  pretension.  It  was  time  Lancelot  went  to  Oxford 
too,  to  befit  himself  for  his  great  part  in  life,  and  make  himself 
worthy  of  his  patrimony  when  it  came.  Not  that  Lancelot  was 
consumed  with  any  burning  wish  to  go.  All  things  considered, 
he  very  much  preferred  the  friendly  seclusion  of  the  wheel- 
wright's workshop,  his  soul's  true  Alma  Mater,  and  the  com- 
forting companionship  of  the  wheelwright's  son,  whose  tran- 
quilizing  influence  lulled  life  and  offered,  as  it  were,  a  shelter- 
ing haven  against  those  mortal  discontents  and  passions  by  which 
it  was  assailed. 

To  make  the  prospect  of  Oxford  tolerable  he  had  associated  it 
with  wild  dreams  on  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  behalf — that  were 
not,  after  all,  to  him  much  wilder  or  more  distant  than  this 
Oxford-Mersham  dream  itself;  figuring  a  Fondie  Bassiemoor 
resplendent  in  cap  and  gown,  who  (their  conjoint  years  of  col- 
26 


396  FONDIE 

lege  ended)  should  come,  on  that  most  bright  and  glorious  day 
to  be,  to  take  up  duty  as  Mersham's  Rector — the  present  Rector 
being  comfortably  and  providentially  disposed  of  for  the  pur- 
pose. And  though  Fondie  Bassiemoor  subscribed  but  a  de- 
precatory and  shrinking  acquiescence  to  this  vision  splendid, 
protesting  that  such  a  place  as  Oxford  was  no  place  for  such  as 
him,  sir,  even  supposing  he  had  ability  to  get  there — which  he 
doubted ;  still,  it  was  one  of  those  make-believes  which  had  laid 
hold  of  him,  and  he  had  lived  under  the  spell  of  it  for  days  at 
a  time,  and  sat  a  rector  in  every  sense  but  one  at  the  meal-table 
in  the  kitchen  at  home. 

And  now  this  make-believe  was  burst  in  turn,  like  the  other 
make-believes;  like  all  the  make-believes  of  life  and  life  itself, 
the  biggest  make-believe  of  all.  He  did  not  mourn.  His  face 
betrayed  no  evidence  of  surprise  or  disappointment.  He  had 
expected  it,  sir.    He  had  known  it,  sir — all  along. 

The  young  gentleman,  disturbed  in  his  own  hopes  by  Fondie's 
serene  submission  thus  to  a  destiny  not  yet  fulfilled,  made  haste 
to  divest  it  of  finality.  Nothing  was  settled.  Perhaps  he  would 
not  go.  He  hoped  he  would  not  go.  And  in  the  end,  as  it 
transpired,  he  did  not  go.  They  went  instead,  and  for  the 
present,  to  Hampshire — where  there  were  some  churches  to 
explore  and  tombstones  to  seek,  and  brasses  to  rub  and  registers 
to  read,  and  inscriptions  to  decipher  and  a  host  of  sickening 
duties  to  be  done.  A  doleful  substitute  for  Whivvle  and  Fondie 
Bassiemoor,  the  workshop  and  the  wheelwright's  yard.  They 
would  be  absent  a  month  or  more.  He  could  not  say  how  much 
more.  That  depended  on  Him.  And  meanwhile  the  Third 
Person  Singular  wished  to  see  Fondie  in  person.  It  was  about 
the  house.  Would  Fondie  keep  the  key  and  take  charge  of  it 
during  their  absence?  There  was  no  one  else  his  grandfather 
could  trust.  Gladly  Fondie  would.  Why,  to  be  sure,  sir, 
Fondie  would.  Fondie  would  be  only  too  proud  to  do  anything 
the  old  gentleman  wished,  and  try  his  best,  sir,  to  justify  the 
confidence  reposed  in  him. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  3P7 

So  Fondie  presented  himself  respectfully  at  the  aud  hoose  in 
his  best  cap  to  learn  the  old  gentleman's  will  and  pleasure,  and 
the  old  gentleman  expatiated  at  length  and  with  minute  par- 
ticularity on  the  nature  and  importance  of  the  charge.  He 
showed  Fondie  the  locks  of  all  the  rooms  in  turn,  impressing  on 
Fondie's  understanding  their  precise  significance  and  character; 
the  way  they  turned,  and  the  special  aptitude  required  to  turn 
them.  He  showed  Fondie  priceless  pieces  of  old  family  porce- 
lain that  must  on  no  account  be  touched  or  handled.  He  showed 
Fondie  the  irreplaceable  pieces  of  old  family  silver  that  in  their 
shroud  of  baize,  and  coffined  in  a  corded  trunk,  were  to  be  in- 
terred beneath  his  own  bed.  He  showed  Fondie  pieces  of  old 
family  furniture;  old  family  pictures;  secretaires,  and  a  portly 
bureau  packed  with  family  documents  and  papers  whose  loss 
would  precipitate  the  dies  ira  and  bring  about  the  immediate 
destruction  of  the  solar  system.  A  fire  would  be  necessary  in 
this  room  from  time  to  time,  to  keep  these  irreparable  papers 
dry — but  the  utmost  care  was  imperative — the  utmost  caution. 
One  spark,  one  thoughtless  match.  .  .  .  He  left  the  conse- 
quences, unspecified  and  incalculable,  to  Fondie's  own  imagina- 
tion and  conscience,  expressed  by  an  uplifted  and  portentous 
forefinger.  Did  Bassiemoor  understand?  Eh,  what?  What 
did  Bassiemoor  say?  Bassiemoor  said  he  did?  Bassiemoor  did? 
Eh,  what?  .  .  .  Well,  then.  .  .  .  Well,  then.  Bassiemoor 
was  to  call  again  before  they  took  their  leave,  to  go  over  the 
house  once  more  and  make  sure  of  what  was  expected  of  him. 
This,  too,  Bassiemoor  did  and  many  things  besides.  Bassiemoor 
helped  the  old  gentleman  and  the  young  to  pack  for  their  depar- 
ture. And  Bassiemoor  suggested  innumerable  wise  provisions 
for  the  care  and  safety  of  the  objects  left  behind,  that  won  for 
him  the  old  gentleman's  approbative  condescension.  And  Bassie- 
moor went  to  the  station  to  inquire  concerning  trains,  and 
brought  back  all  the  necessary  details  for  the  journey  written 
in  Bassiemoor's  best  hand.  And  Bassiemoor  it  was  that  ar- 
ranged with  Bob  Machin  and  his  horse,  and  suggested  to  Bob 


398  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Machin  the  advisability  of  giving  that  and  his  wagonette  a 
rub-down  the  night  before,  and  of  beating  the  dust  out  of  the 
cushions.  And  Bassiemoor  presented  himself  at  the  aud  hoose 
an  hour  before  the  wagonette  was  due,  to  take  his  last  instruc- 
tions and  say  he  trusted  now  he  understood  'em,  sir;  and  this 
key  turned  to  left,  but  he  mustn't  turn  her  over-hard ;  and  that 
to  right,  but  she  needed  a  bit  of  a  click  i'  middle ;  and  yon  key 
went  in  bottom  side  up,  and  he  was  to  give  her  a  sup  of  oil ;  and 
silver  was  under  bed ;  and  this  was  address,  sir,  written  out  on 
paper,  and  if  anything  happened  he  was  to  write  or  send  a 
telegram  without  delay. 

And  the  young  gentleman,  drawing  Fondie  Bassiemoor  aside, 
seized  hold  of  his  hand  and  shook  it  fervently,  saying  he  was 
sorry.  He  hoped  it  wouldn't  be  long.  He  should  miss  him 
frightfully.  He  would  write.  Fondie  must  write,  too.  Fon- 
die must  tell  him  everything.  Fondie  must  go  on.  Fondie 
must  stick  at  it.  Fondle  mustn't  give  up.  Would  Fondie 
promise?  Did  Fondle  promise?  And  Fondie  said,  if  the 
young  gentleman  wouldn't  expect  overmuch  from  any  prom- 
ise that  Fondie  made,  nor  took  it  overserious,  then  Fondie 
would  promise.     Yes,  sir.     Fondie  would  try  his  best. 

Whereat  the  young  gentleman  wrung  his  hand  again  and 
said  he  knew  Fondie  would.  Fondie  was  a  brick.  Thank 
him  for  it.  That  was  all  right.  Thank  him,  Fondie. 
Thank  him.  Fondie  was  the  only  real  friend  he  had  in  the 
whole  world. 

And  though  Fondie's  modest  friendship  most  piously  dis- 
clairned  the  name  of  friend,  deeming  the  utmost  that  it  could 
profess  itself  in  such  unequal  circumstances  was  "well-wisher," 
the  generous  tribute  brought  a  lump  to  his  throat  that  was  still 
there,  like  a  cough  solidified  or  the  last  sucking  of  humbug 
prematurely  swallowed,  when  the  old  gentleman  and  the  young, 
and  Bob  Machin  and  the  ribby  horse  and  superannuated 
wagonette  were  far  upon  their  road  towards  the  station,  and 
Fondie   Bassiemoor  stood  alone   upon   the   doorstep   with   the 


FONDIE 


399 


aud  hoose  key  hung  on  his  crooked  forefinger  and  a  feeling  of 
emptiness  and  desolation  in  his  stomach. 


XXIX 

FONDIE  BASSIEMOOR  took  his  new  duties  very 
seriously — more  seriously,  indeed,  than  seemed  to  meet 
the  favor  of  the  wheelwright  or  of  the  wheelwright's 
daughter,  who  retorted  sharply,  "Y'adn't  need  to  ask!"  to 
her  father's  querying  as  to  Fondie's  whereabouts.  "He's 
at  aud  hoose.  That's  where  he  is.  He's  never  anywheres 
else.  Ye  may  know  very  well  where  he  is  whenever  he's  to 
seek." 

First  thing  in  a  morning  Fondie  would  visit  the  aud  hoose, 
and  go  punctiliously  through  all  its  rooms  from  top  to  bottom, 
to  make  quite  sure  that  everything  within  was  safe  and  sound. 
On  sunny  days  he  opened  out  its  shutters,  and  on  wet  days 
closed  them.  Regularly  once  a  week  he  lit  a  fire  in  the  priceless 
document  room,  which  he  fenced  off  from  all  likelihood  of  dan- 
ger by  a  special  contrivance  of  twofold  wire  netting,  that  cost 
him  a  night's  labor  in  the  workshop  to  devise  and  put  together; 
so  that  he  could  feel  at  liberty  to  leave  the  fire  untended  without 
the  least  apprehension  for  the  day  of  wrath  and  end  of  all 
things.  Night  and  morning,  too,  he  bore  milk  in  a  little  pitcher 
(a  most  unmanly  office  that  of  itself  proclaimed  how  very  fond 
he  was),  and  scraps  of  meat  and  sundries  for  the  aud  hoose  cat 
that  knew  and  waited  for  his  footstep,  and  ran  purring  at  the 
sound  of  it  to  rub  its  hairs  upon  his  trousers  leg.  And  always 
after  he  had  had  his  tea  he  made  the  punctilious  round  of  the 
aud  hoose  once  again,  to  test  its  bolts  and  catches,  its  locks  and 
chains  and  shutters,  its  windows  and  its  doors,  and  satisfy 
himelf  that  all  was  safe  as  human  care  could  make  it.  Last 
thing  at  night,  too,  before  betaking  himself  upstairs  to  bed  in 
stockinged  feet  behind  his  outstretched  candle,  he  paid  a  visit 


400  F  O  N  D  I  E 

to  the  aud  deserted  hoose  and  tried  the  padlock  with  his  fingers 
and  shook  the  gate,  that  Conscience  might  have  no  cause  to 
sleep  unsoundly  or  start  up  from  its  pillow  with  a  sudden 
haunting  fear  of  some  charge  unfulfilled. 

But  not  alone  for  conscience'  and  for  duty's  sake  he  did 
these  things.  Even  in  the  most  disinterested  human  act  some 
minute  self-interest  resides — that  impalpable  nucleus  of  the  ego 
that  is  inherent  in  the  noblest  deed  of  selfless  heroism.  He 
visited  the  house  for  comfort  and  companionship.  The  sight 
of  it  recalled  the  cherished  days  that  had  been  and  brought 
back  Its  occupants  to  mind,  and  In  looking  at  its  walls  and 
windows  he  seemed  to  see  more  clearly  the  face  of  him  who 
was  his  friend,  and  to  whom  his  soul  subscribed  itself  in  all 
devotion  and  respect  "well-wisher,"  and  to  hear  more  audibly 
the  accents  of  the  young  gentleman's  last  injunctions: 
**.  .  .  You'll  stick  to  it.  You  won't  give  up.  You'll  go  on?" 
and  the  young  gentleman's  fervent  acknowledgment  of  his 
promise:  ".  .  .  That's  right.  That's  all  right.  I  knew  you 
would.     I  felt  sure!" 

And  within  the  measure  of  that  modified  and  humbler  prom- 
ise, that  promise  bounded  by  stricter  frontiers  of  reality,  he 
kept  his  word.  He  did  stick  to  it.  He  did  go  on — though  at 
times  it  took  all  his  fortitude  to  keep  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  his  ears  in  his  hands  and  his  head  over  the  book  and  his 
eye  upon  the  supercilious  print  that  mocked  them ;  and  to  go,  at 
such  despondent  moments,  and  take  a  look  at  the  sacred  features 
of  the  aud  hoose  was  very  fortifying  and  strengthening  to  the 
soul. 

Out  of  deference  to  the  promise,  and  in  pious  memory  of  the 
well-wished,  he  practiced  still  the  silent  pedals  of  the  organ 
in  the  dim-lit  chancel  of  Blanche's  father's  church,  and  con- 
ducted the  choir  practice  there  each  Friday  evening,  and  stopped 
reverently  over  the  manuals  on  Sunday.  But  Blanche  he  never 
saw.  Since  the  afternoon  she  had  come  to  sit  on  the  bench  In 
the  wheelwright's  shop  whilst  Fondle  worked  (where  the  tin  of 


FONDIE  401 

axle-grease  was  situated  at  the  time  of  the  young  gentleman*s 
visit)  he  had  seen  no  vestige  of  her.  Only  his  sadness  and  his 
memory,  and  the  tongues  of  Whivvle,  assured  him  she  had 
ever  lived.  But  of  her  father  he  saw  in  these  days  curiously 
more.  In  place  of  Blanche's  confident  step  and  healthy  swing 
it  was  the  Vicar's  shuffling  foot  that  came  into  the  wheel- 
wright's yard,  bringing  Miss  Bassiemoor's  forehead  to  the  scul- 
lery window-pane,  and  the  Vicar's  larger  bulk  that  cast  its 
shadow  on  the  workshop  shavings  from  the  door,  and  the 
Vicar's  voice  that  inquired  of  the  dimness  beyond  if  Fondie 
were  there.  His  errands,  when  declared,  were  often  of  the 
slenderest.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  had  forgotten  them,  and 
would  stay  for  awhile  with  his  hand  upon  his  temple,  saying, 
"It  will  come  back  to  me  after  a  time.  ..."  Perhaps  it  was 
a  matter  touching  hymns.  Did  Fondie  remember  if  they  had 
had  225  last  Sunday?  Or  was  it  the  week  before?  Or  it  was 
a  message  that  he  wished  conveyed  to  this  one  or  the  other, 
and  would  be  deeply  indebted  if  Fondie  (whom,  to  mark  the 
depth  of  his  esteem,  he  not  infrequently  addressed  as  "friend," 
and  even  "dear  friend"  on  occasions)  would  charge  himself 
with  its  delivery  should  he  by  any  chance  be  going  in  that 
direction.  The  contingent  clause  was  one  of  courtesy  alone, 
for  no  matter  in  what  direction  the  Vicar's  message  lay,  it  was 
always  the  direction  that  Fondie  would  be  going,  and  gener- 
ally not  later  than  "after  he'd  had  his  tea,  sir,  if  that  would 
suit  him,  and  be  soon  enough."  And  the  Vicar,  grateful  to 
the  verge  of  humility,  thanked  the  wheelwright's  son  with  an 
unction  that  of  itself  should  have  sufficed  to  pass  him  into 
Heaven.  From  the  day  his  daughter  disappeared  from  the 
sight  of  Whivvle  his  feet  acquired,  as  it  were,  the  habit  of  the 
wheelwright's  yard,  and  took  him  thither  for  no  other  purpose 
(as  it  sometimes  seemed)  than  to  use  his  handkerchief  and  say, 
"No,  no!  It  did  not  matter.  It  was  of  no  importance," 
when  instead  of  the  Fondie  he  had  come  to  see,  the  wheel- 
wright's beard  emerged  from  the  dimness  of  the  workshop  re- 


402  F  O  N  D  I  E 

marking:  "Fondie's  oijt.  It's  where  he  generally  is  when  he's 
wanted.     Is  it  owt  I  can  tell  him?" 

Whivvle  averred  that  Fondie  Bassiemoor  was  become  organ- 
ist, choir-master,  clerk,  and  curate  in  one,  and  said,  "Next  thing 
he  will  be  wearing  a  squash  hat  and  a  parson  collar" — though 
he  never  did.  After  service  on  a  Sunday,  carrying  the  books  of 
sacred  music  beneath  his  arm,  he  was  usually  to  be  seen  escorting 
the  Vicar  homeward,  walking  with  solemn  composure  and 
deliberation  to  accommodate  his  movement  to  the  Vicar's  tardy 
step.  The  initiative  of  such  procedure,  as  may  be  imagined, 
was  never  Fondie's  own.  It  originated  with  the  Vicar,  who 
even  laid  his  hand  on  Fondie's  arm  on  these  occasions,  the  better 
to  engage  his  ear  and  employ  him  as  a  gentle  aid  to  locomotion ; 
and  would  crave  the  favor  of  "just  another  step  or  two,  my 
friend,"  until,  in  solemn  discourse,  they  reached  the  vicarage 
gate  itself. 

And  there,  of  course,  the  Vicar  disengaged  his  hand  from 
Fondie's  arm  and  thanked  him,  my  friend;  thanked  him  .  .  . 
and  would  not  detain  him  further,  or  trespass  on  his  time. 

Beyond  the  gate  the  house  stood  wrapped  in  its  impenetrable 
mantle  of  secretiveness,  betraying  no  more  sign  of  what  it  hid 
than  does  a  tombstone  of  the  dead  below.  Somewhere  behind 
its  lifeless  window^s  Blanche  was  contained ;  the  Blanche  he  had 
known;  the  Blanche  he  had  dared  so  faithfully  and  hopelessly 
to  love,  and  who  was  lost  to  him  and  to  herself  and  all  the 
world.  It  was  a  torturing  and  enervating  thought.  His 
heart  beat  violently  while  he  stood  in  conjunction  with  the  gate 
that  had  so  often  let  her  to  and  fro,  so  that  he  could  scarce 
hear  the  Vicar's  final  words,  on  occasions,  for  the  thudding  of 
it.  Perhaps,  in  the  melancholy  sickness  of  his  soul,  there  lived 
a  hope  he  might  obtain  some  vision  of  her,  howsoever  fleeting; 
some  glimpse  like  blessed  manna  from  above,  for  his  soul's  sus- 
tenance and  comfort. 

But  he  never  did.  Nay,  more.  Being  Fondie,  he  never  even 
tried.    And  always,  after  he  had  taken  leave,  his  soul  reproached 


FOND  IE  403 

him  with  a  sense  of  something  lost;  of  some  occasion  spoiled 
and  wasted.  Her  name,  on  either  side,  was  never  mentioned. 
The  daughter  to  whom  the  Vicar  had  so  proudly  and  so  fondly 
looked  to  dispossess  him  of  the  organ  seat  had  no  longer  any 
place  on  her  father's  lips.  Oh,  if  he  could  but  have  burst  the 
veil  of  silence  and  of  secrecy  that  wrapped  her  from  the  avowed 
fidelity  of  his  soul,  and  taken  the  Vicar's  hand  and  pressed  it, 
and  said  what  all  his  sickness  yearned  to  say:  "...  I'd  like 
to  send  my  kind  respects  to  Miss  Blanche,  sir,  if  I  might  venture 
.  .  .  and  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  convey  'em  for  me  .  .  ." 

But  the  words  remained  unuttered  in  the  bosom  that  bore 
them.  It  is  not  for  wheelwrights  nor  the  sons  of  wheelwrights 
to  rend  Convention's  secrecies,  and  burst  the  veil  that  drapes 
her  nothingness  and  makes  her  terrible  before  the  world. 


XXX 

THERE  came  a  night  in  March  when  Fondie  Bassiemoor, 
supper  being  over  and  the  table  cleared,  and  all  the 
members  of  the  family  gone  to  bed,  rose  up  from  a  letter 
he  was  writing  to  the  well-wished  and,  inspired  by  those  feel- 
ings of  personal  proximity  that  the  composition  of  such  a  docu- 
ment evoked,  went  forth  to  pay  his  customary  visit  to  the  aud 
hoose.  The  night  was  clear  and  starry.  A  chill  was  in  the 
air,  but  not  the  chill  that  speaks  of  winter;  a  chill,  this  was, 
that  had  something  in  its  very  chillness  of  the  warmth  and 
energy  of  spring.  The  buds  were  filling  along  the  hedgerows 
that  showed  no  longer  bare  and  dead  by  day  but  gleamed  with 
a  rich  and  plumlike  color  when  the  sunlight  lay  upon  them. 
Down  amid  the  roots,  arums  and  hedge-mustard,  and  all  the 
wild  green  herbs  that  push  their  crowded  way  through  last 
year's  leaves  to  reach  the  warmth  and  light  above,  were  growing 
up  apace.  The  blackbirds  and  thrushes  were  tuning  their  lays 
from  every  branch  and  shrub.    Only  in  Fondie's  heart  did  this 


404  F  O  N  D  I  E 

joyful  impulse  of  spring,  that  burst  forth  from  myriad  sources 
of  bud  and  blossom,  turn  to  a  sadness  and  a  sickening,  as  if  the 
banquet  spread  were  not  for  him. 

He  took  the  padlock  in  his  hand  and  tried  it.  That  and  the 
gate  he  shook  were  very  cold,  and  beaded  with  a  fine  dew  that 
might  (he  thought)  turn  to  a  rime  by  sunrise.  But  both  of 
them  held  firm  and  testified  to  his  earlier  care  bestowed  upon 
them.  Through  the  wrought-iron  of  the  gate  he  saw  the  dark 
silhouette  of  the  house  beyond.  From  one  or  two  of  its  win- 
dows the  starlight  was  reflected.  All  was  very  quiet;  very 
peaceful;  very  sad.  No  breeze  stirred  the  budded  branches; 
as  yet  it  was  too  early  for  the  advent  of  the  waning  moon.  To 
the  southwest  he  saw  the  familiar  glamour  in  the  sky  betokening 
Hunmouth.  Sheep  bleated,  and  with  their  bleat  came  the 
plaintive  heart-stirring  cry  of  the  young  lamb,  so  lately  born 
into  this  world  of  sorrow,  and  already  (so  it  seemed)  divining 
the  tragic  pathos  of  it.  He  thought  of  the  young  gentleman. 
He  thought  of  Blanche.  He  thought  of  many  things  deeply 
and  sorrowfully  with  his  hand  upon  the  dewy  gate,  and  then 
he  let  this  go  and  rubbed  the  moisture  from  his  palms  upon  his 
coat,  and  sighed  his  customary  sigh  and  turned  away. 

.  .  .  There  were  footsteps.  Somebody  stirred.  Somebody 
swerved  into  the  shadow  of  the  hedge.  Surely  that  was 
somebody's  shape,  and  not  mere  darkness.  He  stopped  inquir- 
ingly. 

"...  Fondie!" 

His  heart  stood  still,  and  then  the  blood,  for  one  moment 
withheld,  swept  up  to  his  brow  and  made  it  burning  hot.  In 
one  instant,  or  so  it  seemed,  his  lips  and  tongue  were  dry.  He 
had  to  moisten  them,  one  against  the  other,  before  he  could 
answer  in  his  curiously  untroubled  voice:  "...  Aye.  It's  me, 
Miss  Blanche.     I  hope  I  didn't  startle  you." 

She  came  out  from  the  blackness  of  the  hedge  that  blotted  her 
and  stood  discernible  against  the  stars.  She  stood  not  too 
near ;  all  the  roadway  was  between  them.     She  stood  as  though 


FONDIE  40s 

mindful  of  the  distance  set  for  her  by  shame,  and  Fondie  stood 
through  trouble,  forbearing  to  advance  upon  her;  forbearing 
even  to  pierce  with  his  eyes  the  darkness  that  screened  her, 
or  take  that  advantage  of  the  night  denied  him  by  day.  So 
for  awhile  they  both  stood,  silent  and  acutely  conscious,  until, 
with  an  effort  to  break  a  silence  in  danger  of  growing  formi- 
dable, she  asked  him  what  he  did  there.  It  was  the  old  voice, 
and  yet  another ;  the  old  familiar  voice  he  knew,  yet  unfamiliar 
and  strange  to  him,  as  if  something  were  gone  from  it  or  some- 
thing added.  A  soberer,  quieter  voice,  with  all  the  laughter 
eliminated — the  laughter  that  had  caused  its  most  prosaic 
questions  to  ring  with  a  certain  mockery  in  the  past;  as  if  life 
called  for  two  things  only:  to  be  laughed  with  or  laughed  at. 

"I  was  giving  a  look  at  gate,  miss,"  Fondie  answered,  with 
a  gravity  that  seemed  to  ask  not  the  least  question  of  the  circum- 
stance or  hour.  "Old  gentleman  and  Mr.  Lancelot's  away. 
I  mostlings  gie  a  look  round  of  a  night,  miss,  before  turning  in 
ti  bed."  He  spoke  with  a  modest  reassumption  of  the  old 
Whivvle  tongue.  He  could  have  made  his  speech  finer  had  he 
wished,  and  more  conformable  to  grammar,  but  his  considera- 
tion shirked  airing  the  least  grace  of  superiority  before  mis- 
fortune, in  presence  of  the  Vicar's  daughter.  He  was  only 
Fondie  Bassiemoor.  He  would  have  been  horrified  to  let  her 
think — of  all  people,  at  such  an  hour  as  this — he  posed  as 
anybody  else. 

She  answered :  Yes  .  .  .  she  knew.  "When  are  they  com- 
ing back?" 

*'I  couldn't  tell,  miss.  Mr.  Lancelot  writes  that  aud  gentle- 
man is  very  bad  to  move.'* 

"Where  are  they  gone  to?" 

"To  Hampshire,  miss." 

She  said:  "Oh  .  .  .  What  a  long  time  it  seems  since  I  saw 
you!     It  seems  an  age." 

"It  seems  a  long  while,  miss.'* 

Silence  fell  again  upon  them;  a  deep  and  tideless  sea  from 


406  FOND  IE 

which  all  Fondle  Basslemoor's  anxious  fishing  could  draw  no 
single  word — no  query  relevant  or  worth  the  asking.  And 
then,  all  at  once  the  voice  of  the  Vicar's  daughter  broke  out 
with  an  impulsiveness  sick  of  dissimulation,  recalling  the  old 
days.  "Oh  .  .  .  say  something,  Fondie.  Ask  me  something. 
Speak.  .  .  .  You  know.  It's  no  use  pretending.  You  know 
all  about  it.  You  can't  say  you  don't.  Everybody  does.  It's 
in  your  mind.     They've  told  you." 

Yes.  He  couldn't  deny  it.  They'd  told  him,  miss — 
though  he'd  never  asked  them  to.  His  voice,  in  its  admission, 
was  mournfully  low. 

"Well?  .  .  ."  He  had  no  answer  available  for  this;  the 
answer  invited  by  it  was  far  too  vast  for  his  lips  at  that  mo- 
ment. "I  suppose  you've  done  with  me  now.  I  suppose  you 
hate  me,  like  everybody.  You  say  it's  all  my  fault,  and  I 
should  have  taken  more  care  and  looked  out.  You  think  I'm 
a  low  little  beast." 

In  solitude  and  the  privacy  of  his  own  heart,  what  a  burning 
denial  he  could  have  made  to  such  hard  imputations !  But  now, 
with  every  impulse  urging  him  and  all  his  sympathies  ablaze, 
such  are  the  flaws  and  contradictions  of  man,  he  could  only 
falter:  "Me,  miss?  I  trust  not.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think 
you  thought  so  badly  of  me  as  that." 

She  asked  abruptly:  "What  do  they  say?" 

He  said,  perplexedly:  "Who,  miss?" 

"Everybody.  They're  all  talking  about  me.  I  know  they 
are.  What  are  they  saying?  Go  on.  Tell  me.  You  know." 
And  when  he  answered  with  an  exceeding  great  and  scrupulous 
discretion  that  it  was  bad  to  tell,  miss;  some  said  one  thing  and 
some  said  another;  and  as  for  him,  he  didn't  listen  to  folk  much 
more  than  he  was  forced,  and  what  they  said  didn't  make  a  deal 
of  difference  to  him — she  cut  him  short  with  the  comment: 
"I  knew  you'd  say  that.  You  always  do.  You  always  screen 
people  if  you  can.  Who  do  they  believe?  Do  they  believe 
me  or  him?     Go  on.     Say.     I  aren't  frightened.     I  don't  care 


F  O  N  D  I  E  407 

now.  I  can  bear  to  be  told  anything.  You  must  have  heard. 
You  know.     Tell  me." 

Aye.  He  had  heard.  He  knew.  Beliefs  were  curiously 
conflicting  things. 

"Some  folk  believe  you,  miss,"  he  answered  slowly,  after 
a  battle  with  his  conscience.  He  was  sorry,  even  in  speaking, 
that  conscience  had  not  suffered  him  to  make  a  better  job  of  it. 

".  .  .  You  needn't  add  the  rest!"  It  was  almost  the  old 
Blanche  that  spoke.  "I  know.  Lots  believe  it."  Her  voice 
shook  as  it  uttered  the  hateful  statement.  *'Lx)ts  do.  I  don't 
care.  They  can.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  now.  ..."  But 
she  added,  "Who  do  you  believe?" 

"I  believe  you,  miss,"  Fondie  answered  with  simple  sincerity. 
"And  whether  I  did  or  I  didn't  ..."  he  was  approaching 
perilous  grounds  of  confidence,  ".  .  .  it  wouldn't  make  a  deal 
of  difference  to  what  I  think.  I  should  side  wi'  you  all  same, 
miss,  whatever  you  did." 

She  said:  "You  say  so  now.  It's  easy  for  you.  If  I  was 
your  sister  you  wouldn't.  You'd  do  what  Harold  does,  and  be 
the  same  as  him.  I  don't  care.  I  did  care  once,  but  I  don't 
now.  I  used  to  be  frightened  of  what  people  would  think  and 
say.  I  aren't  frightened  now.  They  can  say  what  they  like. 
It  doesn't  hurt  me.  ..."  She  stopped,  and  all  at  once — 
cudgeling  his  brain  for  some  consolatory  thing  to  say — he  knew 
that  she  was  weeping;  and  speech  became  impossible.  He 
could  only  stand  away  from  her,  and  respect  by  silence  and 
his  own  tacit  suffering  the  sanctity  of  her  tears.  They  fell 
from  her  noiselessly,  but  he  heard  the  convulsive  intake  of  her 
breath  and  the  sobbing  pulsation  of  her  bosom,  that  rent  his 
very  own.  Oh,  for  a  right  from  heaven,  a  mandate  from  God, 
to  give  to  her  the  pity  that  he  felt;  to  take  her  even  into  his 
unworthy  arms  and  say,  "Thus,  and  so,  does  God  Himself 
forgive  your  fault  and  kiss  away  your  sorrow  and  your  tears !" 
But  no  such  right  was  his,  nor  mandate  came.  She  put  away 
her  handkerchief  at  last,  as  if  Impatient  of  her  own  weakness. 


4o8  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Don't  think  Tm  always  crying.  I  aren't.  I've  almost  for- 
gotten how.  I'  haven't  cried  for  long  enough.  Not  since 
Sunday.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  now.  ...  I  didn't  come 
out  here  for  that.** 

Not  for  that.  For  what,  then?  Fondie  found  himself  re- 
motely speculating.  But  he  scarcely  framed  the  question  to 
himself,  and  certainly  he  would  have  never  uttered  it  to  her. 
She  must  have  known  it,  for  she  said  after  awhile: 

"You're  just  the  same,  Fondie.  You  haven't  altered  a  bit 
You  never  ask  anybody  anything.  Some  folk  would  have 
w^anted  to  know  what  I  was  doing  out  alone  at  this  time." 

"Would  they,  miss?"  He  asked  the  question  wonderingly. 
Yes.     Now  she  mentioned  it,  he  supposed  it  was  true. 

"They'd  have  asked  me  lots  of  things.  Everything  they 
could  think  of  and  wanted  to  know,  whilst  they'd  got  the 
chance.     But  you  don't.     You  seem  as  if  you  didn't  care." 

Even  Fondie's  diffidence  arose  at  that,  to  defend  him  from 
such  a  charge. 

"I  do  care.  Miss  Blanche,**  he  said.  "I  doubt  there's  nobody 
i*  Whivvle  cares  more  than  me." 

He  would  have  liked  to  say  more;  the  words  were  on  his 
tongue,  but  that  fatal  prudence  checked  them.  She  said,  re- 
peating with  a  sort  of  bitterness  his  accents:  *'Miss  Blanche! 
Don't  *Miss'  me,  Fondie.  I  aren't  'Miss'  any  longer.  1 
aren't  anybody  now.  .  .  .'* 

"You're  somebody  to  me,  miss,"  he  assured  her. 

"Nobody  ever  calls  me  'Miss'  but  you,"  she  continued. 
"You're  the  only  one  that  does.  Why  do  you :  You  needn't. 
Call  me  Blanche,  and  be  done  with  it.  I'd  as  soon  you  called 
me  Blanche  as  anybody.  What's  the  good  of  being  so  polite 
as  you  keep  on  being  .  .  .  now?" 

His  voice,  thanking  her  for  this  voluntary  offering  of  so  great, 
so  priceless  a  privilege,  betraj^d  beyond  a  doubt  his  appreciation 
of  the  value  of  it. 

".  .  .  If  I  was  to  call  you  what  you've  been  good  enough  to 


FONDIE  405 

ask  me  to  call  you,  miss,"  he  said,  "I  doubt  you  might  notice  it, 
and  think,  maybe,  I  was  paying  you  less  respect  than  I  had 
done." 

"Why  should  you  pay  me  respect?  You  don't  respect  me. 
You  can't  respect  me  any  longer  .  .  .  after  what  I've  done. 
I  don't  deserve  respect.     Respect's  no  good  to  me!* 

He  hesitated.  There  was  blood  about  his  temples  and  buzz- 
ing in  his  ears. 

"Respect's  maybe  a  word  I  use,  miss,"  he  told  her  in  a  lower 
voice,  "in  place  of  one  I've  less  right  to." 

"What  word's  that?  Say  it!"  she  told  him.  "I  aren't 
frightened.  I  don't  care.  You  can  say  what  you  like  to  me, 
Fondie.     Harold  does." 

There  was  only  one  word,  he  knew.  Only  one  word  that 
could  express  those  surgent  impulses  within  him;  but  at  this 
hour  and  in  this  place  and  under  these  solemn  circumstances 
the  word  clave  to  his  tongue.  It  seemed  a  profanation  to  utter 
It ;  taking  advantage  of  her  loneliness  and  sorrow,  and  the  dark. 
And  yet  she  urged  him,  saying:  "Go  on.  You  can.  You  may. 
You  might,  Fondle." 

He  answered:  "If  I  said  it  was  'affection,*  miss,  I  beg  you 
won't  beh'eve  I  used  word  in  any  bad  sense,  or  hold  you  in  any 
less  esteem  than  I  always  have  done." 

She  cried:  "It  isn't.  It  can't  be.  You've  no  affection  for 
me.     Nobody  has.     Not  now.     Not  after  what's  happened." 

Her  incredulity  lent  him  courage.  "It's  a  plain  [poor] 
word,  I  know,  for  what  I  feel,  miss,"  he  confessed.  "I  made 
word  as  plain  as  I  could  for  fear  but  what  it  might  offend 
you.  But  it's  true.  I  can't  make  myself  feel  any  different 
from  what  I  do,  and  what  I  always  have  done.  Maybe  there's 
folk  mud  say  I  ought  to  feel  different  if  I'd  any  right  feeling 
about  me,  but  if  right  feeling  would  alter  what  I  do  feel  I'd 
rather  have  wrong  feeling,  miss,  and  go  on  like  I  am  going." 

All  at  once  she  was  in  tears  again,  saying: 

"Oh,  Fondie!  .  .  .  Why  wasn't  everyone  like  youf      You 


410  F  O  N  D  I  E 

never  blame  anybody.  People  could  do  whatever  they  wanted 
if  it  was  only  you!  They  could  sin  as  much  as  they  liked,  and 
you'd  let  them.  You'd  never  say  a  word.  I  used  to  say  you 
were  a  silly  fool,  and  sickening.  I  know  I  did.  I  don't  care. 
I  admit  it.  I  used  to  think  so  too."  She  paused,  and  this 
pause  and  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  she  had  broken  o£E  led 
him  almost  to  expect  the  qualifying  words,  "But  now  .  .  ." 
Instead,  she  exclaimed  with  a  sudden  new  lease  of  conviction: 
"And  you  are  a  silly  fool.  You  must  be  a  silly  fool  to  go  on 
caring  for  me.  I  am  not  worth  caring  for.  Nobody  else  does. 
He  doesn't.  I  don't  care  for  myself.  I  don't  know  myself. 
I  can't  believe  it's  me.  I  hate  myself.  I  wish  I  was  dead." 
For  awhile  he  sensed  the  evidences  of  a  bosom  in  commotion, 
of  breaths  sharp  drawn,  of  sobs  combated  and  overcome.  And 
then,  out  of  the  turmoil,  plenished  with  fresh  resolve,  her  voice 
came  to  him.  "I  wont  cry.  I  won't.  People  would  only 
like  me  to.  They'd  like  to  know  I  was  wretched.  They'd  be 
glad.  They'd  say  it  served  me  right.  I  know  what  they'd  say. 
I've  heard  them  say  it,  about  other  girls.  I  never  cry  for  my- 
self. I  only  cry  for  what  people  say  and  think.  It's  them  that 
make  me  miserable.  If  there  weren't  any  people  in  the  world 
I  shouldn't  cry  at  all.  I  aren't  sorry  for  what  I've  done;  I'm 
only  sorry  for  what's  happened — and  I'm  only  sorry  for  that 
because  of  them.  I  only  care  because  of  them.  It's  them  that 
keep  me  indoors.  If  it  wasn't  for  them,  I  should  come  and  see 
you  every  day,  like  I  did  before,  Fondie,  and  sit  on  the  bench 
whilst  you  were  at  work."  She  had  dried  her  eyes,  and  that 
early  unfamiliarity  in  her  voice  seemed  altogether  gone. 
".  .  .  You  don't  know  how  I  miss  those  afternoons  with  you." 

"I  miss  them  too,  miss,"  Fondie's  troubled  voice  acknowl- 
edged. 

"Do  you?"  She  had  come  closer  of  her  own  accord,  and 
stood — not  within  hand's  reach,  but  at  least  so  near  that  he 
could  see  the  starlight  kindled  in  her  eyes. 

"More  than  I  durst  say,  I  do,  miss,"  Fondie  told  her. 


F  O  N  D  I  E  4" 

She  said:  "Do  you  know  what  made  me  come  out  here 
tonight?  You  don't  .  .  .  you  haven't  even  asked.  I'll  tell 
you.     It  was  to  see  you." 

The  intelligence  took  all  his  modesty  by  storm,  and  swept 
up  hot  to  his  hair-roots. 

"It's  a  great  compliment  to  me,  miss,"  he  found  himself 
saying,  groping  after  the  words  blindly,  as  a  man  gropes  after 
matches  in  the  dark.     "I  wish  only  I  was  worthier  of  it." 

"It*s  the  first  time  I've  ever  been  out  of  doors  since  .  .  . 
since,  you  know.  Often  and  often  I've  thought  of  you  in  the 
workshop  and  said,  *Oh,  if  I  could  only  go  and  see  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  and  sit  with  him  I*  But  I  dursn't.  I've  cried  about 
it.  And  last  Sunday,  when  I  saw  you  at  the  gate  with  father, 
and  you  never  looked,  and  never  even  seemed  so  much  as  to 
be  thinking  about  me  ...  I  said:  *I  will  go.  I  won't  stop 
in  for  them.  If  I  can't  go  out  in  daytime  I'll  go  out  at  night.' 
I  knew  you  always  came  to  look  at  the  old  house.  Aleck  said 
you  did." 

"I'm  only  thankful  I  had  thought  to  come  when  I  did,  miss," 
Fondie  told  her.  "Somehow  or  other,  I  didn't  feel  very  much 
like  coming  for  a  piece  after  I'd  got  my  supper.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden  I  made  up  my  mind,  and  came."  For  awhile  his  lips 
hung  fire  over  a  suggestion  of  Providence,  but  the  thought  was 
too  difficult  to  phrase.  He  said  instead:  "I  hope  you  hadn't 
been  stood  waiting  of  me  long,  miss." 

"Not  so  very  long.  I've  been  stood  again  the  wall  where  I 
climbed  over  that  evening,  and  you  helped  me.  Do  you  re- 
member, Fondie?" 

Did  he  remember?  "Fse  not  likely  to  forget  it,  miss,"  he 
said. 

In  a  burst  of  emancipated  memory  she  testified  to  the  glori- 
ousness  of  that  bygone  age  of  gold.  "They  were  good  old  days, 
Fondie!  What  times  we  used  to  have!"  And  all  at  once,  as 
if  she  had  been  some  traveler  returned  from  long  sojourn  in  a 
distant  land,  her  recollections  from  a  hundred  sources  seemed 
27 


4"  FONDIE 

to  flow.  Did  Fondle  remember  this?  Had  Fondie  forgotten 
that?  She  plied  Fondie  with  questions  touching  the  world 
he  lived  in — the  world  to  which  she  herself  was  strange ;  asking 
of  his  daily  life  and  doings;  his  work,  his  books,  his  organ; 
drinking  knowledge  with  the  eager  thirst  of  long  abstinence. 
Laughter  all  but  revisited  her  lips,  these  many  weeks  unused 
to  it,  in  the  zeal  with  which  she  plunged  back  into  the  past — 
the  only  hospitable  tense  now  open  to  her — and  lived  again, 
more  vividly  and  consciously,  the  moments  life  had  wasted  on 
her  then.  From  the  depths  of  her  touched  and  grateful  heart 
she  told  the  wheelwright's  son:  "It's  good  to  hear  your  voice 
again,  Fondie.  You  don't  know  how  good.  After  being  shut 
up  there  all  these  weeks,  with  nobody  to  talk  to."  She  told 
him  of  her  own  life  there.  "You  won't  believe,  Fondie. 
You'll  laugh.  You'll  say  I  aren't  speaking  the  truth.  I  work 
every  bit  of  the  day  now.  I'm  always  downstairs  by  six."  She 
sketched  out  the  program  of  her  daily  duties,  telling  him 
what  he  knew:  "I  used  to  hate  housework  once.  I  thought  it 
sickening.  But  now  ...  I  don't  care.  I  don't  mind.  I 
rather  like  it.  It's  fun!"  Then,  revolting  at  its  own  men- 
dacity, her  soul  protested :  "No,  it  Isn't.  And  I  don't.  I  hate 
it.  I  hate  everything.  I  hate  getting  up.  I  hate  going  to  bed. 
I  only  do  it  to  keep  off  thinking.  You  don't  know  how  awful 
It  is.  Fondle.  It's  like  being  dead.  I  feel  as  if  I  haven't  any 
right  to  anything  any  longer.  I've  no  right  to  eat  or  drink 
or  be  alive  ...  in  a  house  that  I've  brought  disgrace  to.  I'm 
not  like  him.  He  can  go  away  and  get  out  of  It  all.  That's 
why  he  doesn't  come  back  to  Mersham.  He  dursn't.  He's 
frightened.  What  would  he  feel  like  if  he  was  mef  I  can't 
get  out  of  it.  I  can't  tell  lies  like  him,  and  say  I  never  did  it, 
and  it's  somebody  else.  I'm  tied  to  it.  People  will  be  able  to 
see  for  themselves  very  soon  whether  I've  done  it  or  not.  I've 
got  to  stop  at  home  and  eat  food  I've  never  earned,  and  that 
I  can't  earn  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  only  I  was  a  man!  If  only  I 
was  a  man,  Fondie,  what  a  devil  I  would  be!" 


FONDIE 


413 


Ahl  It  was  true.  Man  had  great  privileges;  beautiful 
facilities  for  sin;  a  character  as  washable  as  any  sanitary  wall- 
paper. Man  was  much  to  be  envied,  as  every  girl  before 
Blanche*s  time  knew  and  every  other  that  came  after  would 
learn  either  by  precept  or  in  the  bitter  school  of  hard  experi- 
ence. And  yet,  as  Fondie  Bassiemoor  sadly  said  to  comfort 
her,  "I  wouldn't  care  to  be  some  men,  miss."  He  was  think- 
ing, perhaps,  of  one  man  only,  and  the  judgment  of  a  wheel- 
wright's son  is  calculated,  after  all,  to  be  but  warped. 

"Well.  .  .  ."  She  flung  off  suddenly  the  bitterness  that 
possessed  her,  and  turned  her  face  to  the  stars.  "I  suppose  I 
must  be  going  back  to  it.  Tomorrow's  washday;  I've  got  to 
be  up  early.     What's  the  time,  Fondie?" 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  pressed  its  dial  to  his  eyes. 
"Turned  half-past  ten,  miss,"  he  said,  with  an  accent  of  some 
concern.     "Is  anybody  sitting  up  for  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  Father  may  be.  Harold's  at  the  music-hall 
in  Hunmouth.  He  won't  be  home  while  the  late  train.  If  he 
had  been  I  couldn't  have  come.  He's  ten  times  worse  than 
father.  I  can  stand  father  now.  Father  saw  me  come  out. 
He  never  stopped  me.  He  only  asked  if  I  thought  I  ought  to 
be  out  with  myself  at  night  .  .  .  and  I  said  nobody  would  see 
me,  and  anyway  ...  it  didn't  matter.  Nothing  could  happen 
to  me  now.     I've  no  character,  or  anything,  to  lose. 

".  .  .  Are  you  going  to  set  me  back  as  far  as  the  gate,  Fon- 
die? You  are,  aren't  you?  Or  are  you  frightened  of  being 
seen  along  with  me?" 

It  had  been  in  his  mind,  as  a  desire,  deeply  felt,  haunting 
him  in  the  guise  of  an  interrogation,  and  he  responded  eagerly 
to  the  proposal. 

"If  my  company's  only  agreeable  to  you,  I  should  be  proud, 
miss." 

They  walked  together,  closer  than  heretofore,  beneath  the 
stars.  Now  and  again  in  the  darkness  their  arms  even  touched, 
and  a  thrill  of  unbelievable  emotion  coursed  through  Fondie's 


414 


FONDIE 


being  at  that  fortuitous  contact.  It  was  Blanche.  Blanche, 
the  Vicar's  daughter,  whom  he  had  thought  lost  to  him  for- 
evermore;  to  whom  himself  was  one,  the  least,  among  her 
memories.  They  left  the  aud  hoose  behind  them ;  they  threaded 
the  lane,  talking  In  companionable  undertones;  they  passed 
the  church;  they  came  to  a  standstill,  with  mutual  discretion, 
in  sight  of  the  vague  dark  contour  of  the  vicarage.  Blanche 
put  out  her  hand,  and  Fondie's  hand  closed  upon  it. 
".  .  .  Good-bye,  Fondie!"  She  stayed  the  words  already 
shaped  for  utterance  on  his  lips.  "Don*t  say  that!  Don't 
ever  say  it  again.  You're  the  only  friend  I've  got;  the  only 
one  I  could  turn  to,  Fondie.     Say  'Blanche.'  " 

It  was  a  gigantic  offering;  a  stupendous  tribute.  So  great, 
indeed,  that  gratitude  could  find  no  voice  wherewith  to  register 
Its  most  unworthy  thanks,  to  take  or  to  decline.  Gratitude 
could  only  hold  the  hand  it  held  already,  and  swallow  mutely 
the  words  that  turned  to  lumps  within  its  throat. 

"Don't  you  want  to?"  She  put  his  diffidence  to  scorn. 
"Go  on!  Don't  be  a  silly  fool,  Fondie.  What's  it  matter 
now  ?" 

What  did  it  matter?  It  mattered  everything,  to  him.  It 
mattered  more  than  she,  or  anybody,  knew  or  could  have  had 
the  faculty  to  divine.  But  he  said  it.  Heaven  knows  how,  or 
what  mysterious  power  was  vouchsafed  to  him  at  the  last;  for 
the  task,  at  such  close  quarters,  seemed  almost  superhuman. 
He  heard  another  voice — a  hoarse  and  coarse  and  brutal 
ungovernable  voice — that  broke  out  from  the  vicinity  of  his 
necktie — take  the  name  of  the  Vicar's  daughter  in  vain  and 
say: 

"Good-bye  .  .  .  Blanche." 

And  then  he  scarcely  knew  what  happened,  for  his  ears  were 
filled  with  buzzings  and  roarings,  like  a  defective  telephone 
receiver.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  voice — not  the  voice  that 
had  blasphemed,  but  the  voice  of  the  Vicar's  daughter — re- 
sponded:   "Good-bye,    then,    Fondie.     Thank  you    for  setting 


F  O  N  D  I  E  415 

me.    Thank  you  for  all  youVe  said.    Perhaps  .  .  .  some  night, 
I  shall  see  you  again.  .  .  ." 

It  seemed,  indeed,  that  this  voice  of  the  Vicar's  daughter 
said  these  things;  but  when  Fondie  Bassiemoor  sought  to  put 
his  recollections  to  the  test  as  he  drew  into  the  main  street,  he 
could  not  be  sure.  He  was  as  a  man  coming  to  his  senses  from 
the  effects  of  fever,  revelation,  or  intoxicant.  His  feet  trod  on 
nothing,  and  that  most  irregularly,  as  if  no  longer  subject  to 
any  control  of  his  own.  All  sorts  of  wild  and  senseless  exalta- 
tions filled  his  head,  to  which  no  words  or  reason  could  be 
fitted;  as  if  a  choir  of  vanities  rejoiced  for  some  achievement  of 
his  own,  and  knew  not  rightly  what.  He  had  gone  forth 
despondent;  he  came  home  imbued  with  strange  new  courage. 
No  saint  of  old,  visited  in  his  solitary  and  unsavory  cell  by 
some  shining  angel  of  the  Lord,  ever  sought  his  pallet  with  a 
more  trembling  sense  of  celestial  bliss  than  did  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor *that  night,  stirred  by  this  beatific  vision  of  the  Vicar's 
daughter. 


XXXI 

HE  tried  the  padlock  with  his  fingers ;  he  shook  the  gate ; 
he  stood  with  both  hands  upon  the  iron  crossbar  and 
gazed  through  the  darkness  of  the  shrubbery  at  the 
compacter  darkness  beyond,  where  the  roof  and  chimneys  of 
the  aud  hoose  blacked  out  the  stars.  He  heard  the  same  noc- 
turnal sounds;  the  mournful  bleat  of  ewes;  the  faltering  and 
childlike  cry  of  young  lambs;  the  huge  reiterated  cough  heaved 
from  some  big  bovine  chest  where  the- stock  chewed  or  slept 
in  the  shelter  of  their  warm  strawed  foldyard.  Something 
rubbed  persuasively  around  his  legs,  and  a  vigorous  and  friendly 
thrumming  filled  the  air.  Now  the  butting  head,  and  now  the 
erect  and  rigid  tail  of  the  aud  hoose  cat  provoked  his  kind 
attention,  seeming  to  testify  that  loneliness  is  not  the  preroga- 


4i6  FONDIE 

tive  of  mankind  alone,  and  that  not  only  human  hearts  go 
hungry.  He  stopped  to  stroke  the  ingratlatory  animal,  and 
from  his  pocket  drew  those  meaty  scraps  with  which  he  never 
failed  to  come  provided.  If  only  the  cravings  of  the  human 
heart  could  be  so  readily  appeased. 

And  yet  he  had  not  really  cause  for  discontent.  Heaven  had 
been  very  kind  to  him;  kinder  than  he  deserved.  In  the  fort- 
night that  had  elapsed  since  his  first  celestial  vision,  Heaven 
had  granted  him  two  more.  Twice,  standing  at  the  gate  like 
this,  he  had  been  blessed  with  the  apparition  of  the  Vicar's 
daughter,  and  for  a  sacred  space  they  had  conversed  together. 
Only  on  subsequent  reflection  did  it  seem  to  him  inexplicably 
strange  that  he,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  should  engage  in  sober 
conversation  with  a  creature  of  the  other  sex,  discussing,  with- 
out prudery  or  reserve  or  passion,  subjects  that  but  a  brief 
while  before  he  would  have  blushed  to  think  of  in  her  presence, 
or  let  her  think  were  ever  in  his  mind.  But  just  as  men  make 
light  of  death  till  in  the  presence  of  it,  and  sickness  consecrates 
the  mortal  in  man's  nature  and  makes  it  hallowed,  so  does 
knowledge  born  of  sorrow  seem  to  be  most  holy,  and  lips  may 
speak  of  it  in  reverent  tones  and  do  no  wrong.  That  she  was 
of  one  sex  and  he  another  counted  for  less  than  naught.  A 
greater  thing  than  sex  effaced  this  artificial  barrier  dividing 
human  hearts.  They  stood,  the  two  of  them,  like  inquiring 
children,  before  the  throne  of  this  implacable  and  ruthless 
wisdom,  and  talked  of  it  with  candor,  as  children  do  of  God. 
She  confided  her  daily  doings,  her  thoughts,  her  fears;  and  he 
lent  her  what  he  lent  to  the  young  gentleman  of  the  aud  hoose : 
the  refuge  of  a  calm,  contented  mind;  a  mind  of  spacious 
equanimity,  like  the  soft  sky  that  had  spread  above  the  aud 
hoose  on  the  night  that  Blanche,  with  his  blushing  assistance, 
climbed  its  wall.  Then — and  how  recently  it  seemed — she  had 
been  but  a  girl,  indulging  a  girl's  appetite  for  escapade.  Now 
.  .  .  now  she  was  but  a  girl  still,  bearing  a  woman's  burden; 
crushed  and  bowed  beneath   a  weight   that   no  human  hand 


FONDIE  417 

could  lighten  or  remove.  Often  he  thought  of  it,  of  the  vast 
and  awful  injustice  of  it,  in  his  placid,  uncomplaining  way. 
For  if  it  was  a  punishment  (as  some  there  were  who  said), 
then  it  came  of  God,  and  was  indeed  a  hard  and  ruthless  pun- 
ishment to  lay  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  child  like  this.  And  if 
it  were  not  of  God  .  .  .  why,  then,  he  knew  not  what  to  think. 
If  it  were  not  of  God,  by  what  text  or  authority  did  a  whole 
world  conspire  to  punish  her  for  what  the  Lord  let  go  free? 
Surely  God  did  not  punish  twice  over  for  the  same  offense; 
He  did  not  chastise  souls  in  this  world  and  the  next?  And  if 
sufferings  were  sent  as  trials  (as  others  said),  then  did  not 
Blanche's  suffering  bear  the  seal  of  divine  instigation  which 
should  hush  all  these  whispering  and  scornful  lips?  Was  not 
this  terrible  loss  of  her  character  and  good  name  no  less  a  trial 
sent  of  God  than  the  loss  of  a  first-born  or  the  death  of  some- 
one dear?  He  wished,  haunted  by  such  inscrutable  perplexi- 
ties, that  he  had  had  the  Vicar's  learning  to  solve  them  by  the 
Book,  heedless  of  how  little  the  Vicar's  learning  served  its 
owner  In  this  same  crisis,  and  how  little  human  soVrow  can  be 
solved  by  print. 

"Fondle.  .  .  ." 

He  started  from  the  gate  at  once,  stepping  with  caution  to 
avoid  the  friendly  animal  at  his  feet. 

"Aye  .  .  .  it's  me,  miss,"  he  replied.  It  was  his  instinctive 
formula,  as  his  own  name  was  hers.  Despite  the  sanction  given 
him  and  the  freedom  of  their  discourse,  his  lips  hesitated  to 
say  "Blanche,"  as  his  muddy  boots  would  have  scrupled  to 
profane  (without  apology  and  much  persuasion)  a  new-clayed 
doorstep,  or  as  he  would  have  shrunk  from  entering  the  House 
of  God  without  uncovering  his  head. 

She  drew  nearer  to  him  than  she  had  done  on  that  initial 
occasion,  when  shame  imposed  its  distance  on  her,  but  not  so 
near  as  she  would  have  drawn  in  the  old  flamboyant  days; 
and  she  stood  motionless,  with  no  swing  of  arms  or  throw  of 
the  head.     "I  can't  stop,  Fondle,"  she  told  him.    "Harold  will 


4i8  FONDIE 

be  back  any  time.  He's  gone  to  Merensea  on  his  bicycle. 
Don't  say  'Indeed,  miss,'  like  you  always  do.  Say  something 
else.  And  don't  ask  me  'What?'  like  I  know  you  want 
to.  Say  'It's  sickening.'  Say  anything.  Swear  if  you  like — 
I  wish  you  would.  But  you  never  do.  You're  no  help  for 
that." 

Behind  the  semi-mockery  of  her  words  he  was  conscious  of 
a  bitterness  recently  roused.  Still  speaking  on  the  theme  of 
her  brother,  she  said:  "He's  awful.  You  don't  know  what 
he  is,  Fondie.  It's  all  very  well  for  you.  You  haven't  him  to 
put  up  with." 

Perhaps  Fondie*s  silence,  erring  on  the  side  of  discretion, 
might  appear  provocative  to  a  soul  smarting  under  a  recent 
grievance,  but  Fondie's  brain  was  very  busy,  and  Fondie's  lips 
were  shaping  words  and  sentences  that  had  no  immediate 
reference  to  the  topic  chosen.  He  offered  a  platitude  for  her 
consolation.  "I  know  some  folk  can  be  bad  to  bide  at  times," 
he  said.  After  the  last  word  in  his  sentence  the  pause  in  his 
breath  indicated  a  word  still  lacking  for  its  completion.  And 
as  the  word  could  have  been  but  "Blanche"  or  "miss,"  and  as 
his  courage  was  not  yet  sufficiently  kindled  for  the  one,  nor 
his  diffidence  quite  capable  of  the  other,  he  left  the  sentence 
uncompleted. 

She  broke  new  matter  with  her  next  words:  "They're  com- 
ing home  again,  Fondie." 

''Yes,  they're  coming  home  again.  .  .  ."  And  in  a  low  and 
hurried  voice:  "Do  you  wish  me  to  call  you  same  name  as 
before,  miss?" 

She  said:  Of  course  she  did.  Did  he  think  she  would  have 
asked  him  if  she  hadn't?     He  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  believe. 

In  a  contrite  voice  he  begged  forgiveness  for  this  Thomasian 
spirit  in  him,  and  said  habit  was  a  hard  thing  to  break,  and 
his  tongue  tripped  over  it.  And  he  called  her  "Blanche" — 
with  the  inevitable  shock  to  his  own  propriety,  even  at  her 
behest — and  told  her:     "After  next  week  at  this  time  I  shall 


FONDIE  419 

have  no  call  to  come  of  a  night  and  see  if  aud  hoose  is  safe." 

She  said,  "Next  week!"  as  if  next  week  had  a  terror  of  its 
own  and  its  proximity  disquieted  her. 

Fondie,  subscribing  sadly  to  her  concern,  said,  "Aye!  Time 
flies,  I  know." 

"I  wish  they  weren't  coming  back,"  she  exclaimed,  and  in 
the  same  breath  corrected  herself:  "No,  I  don't.  It's  nothing 
to  do  with  them.  They've  a  right  to  come  back  if  they  like. 
They  can  for  what  I  care.  It  isn't  their  fault."  And,  sud- 
denly breaking  down  this  equivocation,  she  discharged  her  soul. 
Fondie  did  not  know  how  wretched  she  really  was.  She  seemed 
to  alter  as  soon  as  she  came  near  Fondie. 

Fondie  thought,  because  she  talked  to  him  and  told  him  things, 
and  asked  him  things  .  .  . 

Fondie  thought  she  was  no  different  from  what  she'd  al- 
ways been.  Fondie  thought  she  didn't  care  and  didn't  trouble 
and  didn't  fret.  Fondie  was  wrong;  he  was  wrong.  She 
did  care.  Who  could  help  caring,  with  Harold?  Harold 
had  got  started  again  now.  He  hadn't  been  saying  anything 
or  taking  any  notice  of  her  this  last  week.  And  tonight  he'd 
begun  again  after  tea,  asking:  What  was  being  done,  and  what 
was  going  to  happen  to  her?  As  if  she  wasn't  thinking  about 
it  all  the  while!  .  .  .  "He  says  .  .  ."  She  poured  forth  her 
trouble  with  the  high-bosomed  resentment  that  is  but  weeping 
in  disguise.  "He  says  it  can't  take  place  at  home.  He  says: 
'Not  likely.  I  needn't  think  it.'  As  if  I  ever  did  think  it.  As 
if  I  ever  wanted  it  to  take  place '  anywhere.  ...  He  says: 
*Not  in  a  vicarage.'  I  must  be  got  somewhere  else.  I  must 
be  got  away  somewhere.  He  says  he  has  his  position  at  the 
office  to  think  of.  He  says  I  ought  to  have  been  got  away 
before  .  .  .  and  when  father  asked  him,  'Where?'  he  only 
said:  *I  don't  care  where.  Anywhere  away  from  herey  at  any 
rate.  She  never  goes  out.  She  never  shows  herself.  It's 
making  a  fool  of  the  whole  affair.  .  .  .'  " 

She  poured  out  to  her  complaisant  friend  and  listener  in  the 


4ao  F  O  N  D  I  E 

words  of  burning  remembrance  that  preserved  with  unmis- 
takable fidelity  the  very  tones  and  phrases  of  the  speakers,  the 
record  of  the  miserable  conference  that  had  risen  and  raged 
over  the  tea-table. 

"Father  was  all  right  till  Harold  started.  Father's  never 
said  a  word.  He's  gone  errands,  and  fetched  things  home  him- 
self so  as  people  wouldn't  have  to  come  to  the  door;  and  told 
them  there  might  be  nobody  at  home,  and  if  so  they  were  to 
leave  the  things  in  the  shed,  and  it  would.be  all  right.  And 
Aleck's  done  things  for  me,  so  as  I  needn't  be  seen.  But 
Harold  never  has.  Harold  says:  'Why  should  he?'  He  says 
he  doesn't  want  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  He  says  I  ought  never 
to  have  blurted  it  out  like  I  did.  I  ought  to  have  kept  my 
mouth  shut  and  told  nobody,  and  gone  away  before  it  got 
about;  and  he's  not  going  to  stay  in  the  house  and  have  the 
doctor  calling  to  see  his  own  sister.  .  .  ." 

Rebellion  broke  down  at  that,  dissolving  into  the  fluid  thing 
It  was  at  heart,  and  wept:  "Oh,  Fondie!  If  only  I'd  had  a 
brother  or  somebody  like  you — to  stick  up  for  me  and  take  my 
part.  He  says  it's  my  fault.  What  if  it  is?  I  know  it  is. 
I've  said  so.  I've  admitted  it.  What's  the  good  of  admitting 
things  .  .  .  just  to  be  bullied  and  blamed  all  the  same?  He 
ought  to  be  sorry  for  me.  Anybody  would  that  knew  how 
wretched  I  am.  He'd  be  sorry  if  it  was  him.  And  he's  a  man, 
and  men  are  supposed  to  stand  things.  I'm  only  a  girl.  .  .  . 
But  I  won't  stand  it,  if  I  am  a  girl.  I  won't,  Fondie.  I  won't. 
I'll  do  something." 

He  had  listened  to  her  all  this  time  with  the  sorrowful,  im- 
plicit silence  that  seems  to  offer  itself  as  a  propitiatory  sacrifice 
to  grief,  but  on  a  sudden  the  thoughts  that  had  been  seething 
behind  his  lips  took  shape,  and  he  spoke  her  name  with  an 
inflection  and  a  purpose  new  to  him. 

".  .  .  Blanche!" 

His  altered  accent  impressed  even  the  girl's  despair,  for  at 
the  sound  of  it  her  tears  ceased,  and  she  raised  her  head  with 


FONDIE 


421 


the  sharpened  curiosity  that  despair  assumes  at  times,  demand- 
ing, "What?" 

Perhaps  the  knowledge  of  her  complete  attention  unnerved 
his  purpose.  He  did  not  ansu-er  all  at  once,  and  when  he  did 
so  his  voice  had  lost  the  steadiness  with  which  it  first  uttered 
her  name. 

"There's  something  Td  like  to  say,"  he  told  her  hurriedly, 
and,  as  it  seemed,  beseechingly.  "Something  I'd  like  to  ven- 
ture to  ask  you.  Something  that's  been  on  my  mind  a  long 
while — that's  on  my  mind  now.  Something  very  important 
...  if  only  you'd  give  me  permission,  and  wouldn't  judge 
amiss  of  me  if  it's  anything  I  ought  to  ha'  kept  to  myself  by 
rights,  and  not  spoken,  even  now.  .  .  ," 

She  asked  wonderingly,  "What  is  it?" 

"It's  this  .  ,  .  miss,"  said  Fondie,  and  she  did  not  challenge 
his  deliberate  relapse  into  the  ancient  respectfulness  of  address, 
deeming  that  he  had  his  reason  for  that,  too,  which  this  other 
purpose  would  explain.  "You've  shown  me  marks  o'  favor 
above  anybody  else.  You've  put  confidence  in  me  .  .  .  that 
I  trust  you'll  never  regret,  nor  I  shall  never  abuse.  You've 
told  me  ...  I  was  only  friend  you  had.  You've  gone  so  far 
as  to  wish  everybody  was  like  me — though  for  world's  sake  it's 
well  they  aren't,  miss.  But  the  feelings  you  have  for  me  are 
nothing  to  feelings  I  have  for  you.  We  called  them  'affection' 
the  other  day,  miss,  but  affection's  no  name  for  'em.  It's  like 
calling  sun  moon."  He  spoke  very  rapidly  and  quietly,  as 
though  on  guard  to  preserve  his  tongue  against  any  exaggera- 
tion or  passion  that  might  do  violence  to  his  own  feelings  or 
hers.  ".  .  .  I've  never  had  but  one  feeling  for  you,  miss,  since 
day  I  was  old  enough  to  have  any.  You  know  now  what  that 
feeling  is,  without  me  having  to  name  it,  in  case  it  isn't  to  your 
approval.  .  .  .  But  if  you  thought  after  what  I've  said  .  .  . 
you  could  trust  yourself  to  such  rough  hands  as  mine,  miss, 
that  aren't  worthy  of  you,  I  know  .  .  .  they'd  ask  nothing 
better  than  to  work  for  you  and  do  all  they  knew  to  give  you 


422  F  O  N  D  I  E 

what  happiness  and  comfort  was  in  their  power,  and  stand  up 
for  you,  and  shield  you  from  harm." 

She  asked  with  a  catch  of  the  breath,  "What  do  you  mean, 
Fondie?     How?" 

He  answered:  "In  any  way  you  judged  best,  Miss  Blanche." 

"Do  you  mean  .  .  ."  her  voice  became  incredulous, 
".  .  .  marry  me?" 

"Aye!  ...  It  sounds  presumptuous,  I  know,  miss,"  Fondie 
said,  as  though  acquiescing  in  a  rebuke  administered.  "And 
maybe  you'll  be  right  in  telling  me  that  I  should  never  ha' 
ventured  to  presume  if  you  hadn't  been  in  trouble.  I'm  taking 
advantage  of  you,  just  as  much  as  other  folk.  I'm  snatching 
chance  just  because  I've  got  it,  miss,  and  there's  no  saying  I 
aren't.  But  it's  what  I  do  mean,  and  I  won't  try  and  save 
myself  by  denying  it." 

She  said,  as  if  all  her  judgment  were  lost  in  stupefaction: 
"Fondie  .  .  .  you  can't  .  .  .  you  don't  .  .  .  Not  after  what's 
happened !" 

He  treated  the  objection  gravely,  with  the  ingenuous  sim- 
plicity of  a  nature  that  understands  nothing  of  the  transmuta- 
tion of  words. 

"There's-  some  might  say  so,  I  know,  miss,"  he  agreed. 
"They  might  say  I  shouldn't  ought  to  do  it  if  I'd  any  pride. 
But  pride's  no  good  to  me.  Miss  Blanche.  If  a  man's  con- 
science doesn't  serve  him,  I  know  very  well  his  pride  won't. 
Besides  .  .  .  there's  prides  and  prides.  There's  prides  that 
nobbut  puils  a  man  up  .  .  .  and  prides  that  strengthen  him. 
I  should  be  prouder  wi'  you,  Miss  Blanche  .  .  .  than  any 
other  man  in  England  is  wi'  all  pride  he  can  muster.  With 
you  for  my  pride  I  could  almost  hope  to  be  a  better  man  than 
I  have  been." 

She  burst  out:  "What's  the  use!  You  know  you  woiddn't. 
.  .  .  You  dursn't,  Fondie." 

"With  you,  and  for  you,  miss,"  Fondie  answered  simply,  "I 
durst  do  almost  anything.    There's  not  many  things  I  couldn't 


FONDIE  423 

and  wouldn't  do,  whatever  they  were  .  .  .  good  things  or  bad 
things.  Not  that  I  blame  you  for  saying  so,  for  I've  said  same 
to  myself  many  a  time.  I've  told  folk  I  should  never  leave 
my  father  so  long  as  old  man  lived,  and  I  should  stay  wl'  him 
and  wi'  my  mother  all  time  they  were  spared.  And  folk  said 
more  fool  me,  and  I  see  now  they  knew  me  better  than  I 
knew  myself.  Book  was  right  when  It  tells  us  for  what  sake 
a  man  shall  leave  his  father  and  mother.  Aye  .  .  .  leave  both 
them,  and  home  he  was  brought  up  in,  and  go  anywhere.  To 
the  other  end  of  Yorkshire,  miss.  Right  across  the  seas.  If  you 
think  good,  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  where  folk  wouldn't 
know  us  or  ask  questions,  or  say  unkind  things.  Not  that  I 
shouldn't  be  sorry  to  leave  Whlvvle,  but  only  you  went  with 
me  there's  not  very  much  of  Whlwle  I  should  leave  behind. 
Mr.  Lancelot  will  soon  be  going  an*  all,  and  pleace  won't  seem 
same.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  I've  got  money  of  my  own  i'  bank,  enough  to  take  us 
where  we  want  to  go  and  keep  us  nicely  going  until  I  find 
work.  And  I've  confidence  to  think  It  wouldn't  be  long  before 
I  did,  for  work's  a  thing  I've  never  been  frightened  of  yet, 
and  It's  such  men  as  me  they  say  they  want,  miss,  out  there." 

She  stood  silent,  plunged  In  all  the  surging  possibilities  and 
potentialities  thrown  open  by  his  avowal.  Here  was  liberty  at 
last.  Here,  undreamed  till  now,  was  a  way  out  from  this  dire 
Imprisonment  of  her  self  and  soul.  Here  was  a  way  of  reprisal 
on  her  tormentors,  of  escape  from  all  who  scorned  her;  who 
rejoiced  at  heart  by  reason  of  her  downfall  and  distress.  Her 
brother  said  she  must  be  got  away.  She  could  be  got  away 
without  him.  She  could  prove  herself  Independent  of  his  au- 
thority and  control.  She  asked  Fondle,  and  her  voice  trembled 
with  the  eagerness  of  hope: 

"When?.  .  .  When  do  you  mean?" 

He  answered:  "Any  time  you  like,  miss.  In  a  week,  maybe 
...  or  less."  He  would  have  made  his  words  "Tomorrow," 
but   the    remembrance    of    his   obligations   to    the   aud    hoose 


424  F  O  N  D  I  E 

checked  him,  and  he  said:  "I  couldn't  very  well  take  off  till 
aud  gentleman  and  Mr.  Lancelot's  back.  But  once  they're 
home  again  .  .  .  there's  nothing  to  stop  me.  I'd  draw  money 
out  of  bank.  .  .  .  You  could  have  what  you  wanted,  miss,  if 
there's  anything  you  need." 

Still  she  stood,  whelmed  in  the  gusts  and  surges  of  her  own 
imagination;  in  those  wild  hopes  and  aspirations  roused  like 
fierce  winds  by  his  words,  that  blew  about  her  and  made  her 
very  being  tremble.  Before  that  gale  of  passionate  desire,  sober 
reason  and  stern  realities  were  swept  like  leaves;  like  chaff 
about  the  stackgarth  on  a  threshing  day  when  the  wind  rolls 
from  the  west.  And  then  the  fierce  onslaught  of  exultation 
died  away  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  and  her  soul  relapsed 
into  the  despair  of  dreadful  fact. 

"It's  no  use,  Fondie!"  He  almost  believed  for  awhile,  for 
a  moment,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "It's  too  late. 
You  know  it's  too  late.  .  .  .  Oh,  why  didn't  you  say  all  that 
before!     Why  have  you  waited,  like  you  have,  till  now!" 

"I  blame  myself,"  he  answered  guiltily.  "If  I  hadn't  been 
a  coward,  I  should  ha'  done.  But  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  it, 
somehow.  For  one  thing,  I  felt  too  much  respect  for  you, 
miss." 

"Respect!"  Her  voice  seemed  to  tear  the  word  in  twain 
as  if  it  had  no  significance  or  value  for  her.  "I  didn't  want 
respect.  Nobody  else  gave  me  respect.  Why  should  you? 
Father  was  always  talking  about  respect,  and  saying  I  ought 
to  respect  myself  and  make  myself  respected,  and  I  hated  the 
very  word.  .  .  ."  She  went  on:  "It  isn't  as  if  I  hadn't  given 
you  chances,  Fondie.  I  have.  I've  given  you  lots;  as  many 
as  anybody.  But  you  never  seemed  to  see  them.  And  of 
course  I  couldn't  ask  yqu." 

"I  saw  some  of  them,  miss,"  Fondie  corrected  her.  "But 
I  .  .  ." 

"But  you  didn't  take  them,"  she  threw  in.  "If  only  you 
had  have  done,  perhaps  this  would  never  have  happened.     Or 


FONDIE  42s 

at  least  if  it  had,  it  would  have  been  you;  and  you  wouldn't 
have  said  I  was  a  liar,  like  him,  and  left  me  to  iace  it  out  alone. 
Of  tens  and  of  tens  I've  wanted  to  be  fond  of  you  .  .  .  and  I 
could  have  been  with  the  least  bit  of  encouragement  from  you. 
But  it  was  always  harmoniums  or  books  or  organs  or  something, 
and  I  thought  in  the  end  you  cared  for  everything  and  every- 
body more  than  me." 

"I  only  wanted  to  make  myself  worthy  of  you,  miss,"  Fon- 
die  told  her  penitently. 

"But  I  didn't  want  you  to  be  worthy  of  me!"  she  protested. 
"All  I  wanted  you  to  do  was  to  make  yourself  nice.  And 
while  you  were  making  yourself  worthy  of  me,  as  you  call  it, 
time  was  going  by.  What  was  /  to  do?  How  long  did  you 
expect  me  to  wait?" 

**I  see  my  error,  miss,"  he  acknowledged.  "But  I  said  to 
myself  you  were  Vicar's  daughter,  and  I  was  only  wheelwright's 
son." 

"Well!  .  .  .  And  it  doesn't  matter  how  worthy  you'd  made 
yourself,"  she  pointed  out  to  him,  "you'd  still  have  been  that. 
Besides  ...  if  you'd  made  me  fond  of  you  I  shouldn't  have 
cared  what  you  were,  or  whose  son  you'd  been.  And  now 
..."  she  reverted  to  her  early  cry,  "it's  too  late.  It's  too 
late." 

"Not  for  me,  miss,"  Fondie  assured  her  earnestly.  "Not 
too  late  for  me,  if  it  isn't  too  late  for  you." 

"It's  too  late  for  both  of  us,  Fondie,"  she  declared.  "You 
say  it  because  you  pity  me,  and  because  you're  sorry  for  me, 
and  because  you  want  to  help  me  if  you  can.  Because  I've 
cried  to  you,  and  told  you  how  wretched  I  was.  You'd  help 
anyone.  Everybody  knows  that,  and  takes  advantage  of  it. 
But  if  I  was  to  marry  you  ...  it  wouldn't  alter  things.  It 
wouldn't  be  yours,  when  it  came ;  it  would  be  his  still — for  all 
he  says  it  isn't,  and  that  it's  somebody  else's.  And  it  would 
always  remind  you.  You'd  say:  'She  only  married  me  because 
she  couldn't  marry   him;   because    he   didn't   want   her,    and 


426  F  O  N  D  I  E 

wouldn't  have  her.*  No,  no.  You  shan't,  Fondle."  She  wrung 
out  her  final  decision  almost  fiercely.  "I  won't  let  you.  It's  not 
fair.  It's  not  fair  to  let  you  saddle  yourself  with  other  people's 
leavings.  Harold  wouldn't.  /  wouldn't  if  I  was  a  man. 
I'd  see  anybody  far  enough  first  that  had  treated  me  like  I've 
treated  you.  They'd  say  it  was  me  that  had  tricked  you  into 
it,  and  not  you  that  had  wanted  to.  .  .  .  And  they'd  say  it- was 
yours  all  along,  and  I'd  only  been  trying  it  on  with  him. 
.  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  they'd  say!  They'd  say  every- 
thing." 

"I'll  chance  what  people  say,  miss,"  he  affirmed.  "They 
say  plenty  about  me  as  it  is,  for  all  I  know.  And  it's  not  them 
I'm  doing  it  for,  nor  yet,  I  doubt,  for  you;  it's  for  myself,  miss; 
and  if  I  didn't  want  you  so  badly  as  I  do  want  you,  maybe 
I  should  do  same  as  you  say  you'd  do  if  place  was  changed." 
He  tried  to  plead  with  her,  and  for  awhile  she  lent  ear  as  if  her 
inclination  went  with  it,  but  just  when  he  began  to  draw  hope 
from  his  own  advocacy  she  swept  it  all  aside  again,  and  said: 
No,  no!  She  wouldn't  listen  to  him.  It  wasn't  fair.  She 
wouldn't  hear  him.  "Don't,  Fondie!"  she  cried,  and  there 
was  pain  in  the  cry,  as  if  his  continuance  of  the  topic  cut  and 
hurt  her.  "I  can't  bear  it.  It  only  shows  me  what  a  fool 
I've  been.  Don't  make  things  worse  for  me  to  bear  than  what 
they  are.  Day  after  day  I've  been  hoping  all  sorts  of  hopes, 
and  built  on  them,  and  they've  every  one  failed.  Don't  give 
me  another  to  cling  to.  Something  will  happen  to  that  like  it's 
happened  to  all  the  rest.  I  don't  know  what.  Anything. 
Nothing  can  help  me  now;  I'm  sure  it  can't.  If  you  could  have 
said,  'Run  away  with  me  tonight!  Let's  go  now;  straight 
away!'  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  might  have  said.  I  might 
have  said  ...  oh,  anything!  But  as  it  is  you  can't.  There's 
the  house  to  think  of,  and  the  cat  to  feed.  And  by  the  time 
they  come  back  ..." 

He  did  not  deny  it.  All  his  soul  strained  to  cry  out,  "I'll 
forfeit  everything,  miss,  for  you.     I'll  go  now.     I'll  leave  cat 


F  O  N  D  I  E  427 

to  Starve;  and  house  to  look  after  itself  .  .  .  only  you'll  say 
word!" — but  that  stronger  power  within,  that  inner  soul  that 
subordinated  all  his  selfish  longings  and  desires  to  its  strict, 
unflinching  rule,  restrained  him  and  held  him  tongue-tied  and 
conscience-bound. 

She  said  of  a  sudden:  "Come,  Fondie!  I  shall  have  to  run. 
Harold  will  be  back  by  now.  If  he  is!  .  .  .  Don't  tell  me 
what  time  it's  got  to." 

*'At  least  .  .  ."  he  begged  of  her  as  together  they  moved 
quickly  along  the  lane,  ".  .  .at  least  you'll  keep  my  words  in 
mind,  miss.  You  won't  forget  I've  said  them,  and  that  I  mean 
them.     You'll  think  them  over  when  you're  by  yourself?" 

She  answered:  "How  do  you  expect  I  can  do  anything  else? 
I  shall  be  thinking  of  them  all  night.  I  shall  always  be  think- 
ing of  them.     I  shan't  be  able  to  forget  them." 

"...  And  next  time  we  meet,"  he  urged  her,  "I  trust  you'll 
see  your  way  to  view  them  more  favorably,  miss.  I  shall  live 
in  hopes  you  will.  It's  what  I  shall  chiefly  live  for.  There's 
not  a  moment  you're  ever  out  of  my  mind." 

She  said:  "Don't  come  any  farther.  You'd  best  not,  to- 
night. There'll  be  an  awful  row  if  Harold  was  to  see  you. 
Not  that  you  need  be  frightened  of  him.  You  could  soon 
settle  him.  But  still  .  .  .  Good  night,  Fondie.  And  thank 
you  ever,  ever  so  much." 

He  answered  huskily,  "Good  night,  miss." 

"You're  not  angry?  Aren't  you  going  to  call  me  ^Blanche* 
any  more?" 

He  said  the  'Blanche'  she  asked  for — breathing  it,  rather,  with 
the  reverence  befitting  an  Amen. 

"Angry  with  you,  Blanche!  I  only  feel  I'd  like  you  to  give 
me  a  better  right  to  name  before  I  use  it.  Next  time,  maybe. 
.  .  .  Good  night,  Blanche,  and  God  bless  you.  There's  noth- 
ing of  His  that's  dearer  or  more  sacred  in  my  heart." 

And  with  that  benediction  she  took  her  leave,  going  from 
him  with   a   rapid,   semi-running  step   to  meet  the  uncertain 


428  F  O  N  D  I  E 

welcome  of  the  house  of  shameful  mystery  that  was  her  home. 
He  stood  until  the  last  vestige,  the  last  sound  of  her  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  nighttide,  as  he  might  have  stood  within  some 
sacred  building  after  prayer,  reluctant  to  disturb  or  break  by 
movement  the  divine  communion. 

Why  was  this  being,  of  all  beings  in  the  world,  so  dear  to 
him?  Why  was  this  errant  and  imperfect  creature,  whose 
mortal  flesh  confessed  its  fault  before  the  righteous,  fleshly 
world  of  judges,  so  obstinately  worshiped  by  his  soul  among 
God's  most  sacred  and  worshipable  things? 

God  knew  and  knows  alone.  The  answer  is  with  Him  in 
Heaven,  where  all  His  other  mysteries  are  housed  and  hid,  and 
not  on  earth  among  the  finite  questioning  sons  of  men. 


xxxn 

THE  ring  of  a  horse's  shoe  or  the  rumble  of  a  cartwheel 
has  a  very  different  value  in  the  country  from  that  which 
attaches  to  it  in  the  town.  In  the  town  it  is  mere 
noise,  multiplied  by  frequency  into  distraction;  in  the  country 
It  is  knowledge,  magnified  by  rarity  into  significance.  Not  un- 
usually it  tells  as  much  as  a  whole  paragraph  in  the  Hunmouth 
evening  paper,  costs  a  ha'penny  less,  and  is  more  reliable.  The 
Press  may  err;  and  print,  particularly  in  a  bad  light,  is  trying 
and  difficult  to  read;  but  a  horse  or  spring-cart  practices  no 
deception.  On  the  same  night  that  the  old  gentleman  and  the 
young  came  back  to  the  aud  hoose,  and  smoke  curled  up  from 
no  fewer  than  four  chimneys,  the  carrier's  wife,  disrobing  in 
her  bedchamber,  imposed  a  sudden  silence  on  her  husband  with 
an  authoritative  "Wisht!'* 

**I  mun  ha'  my  trousers  off,  hooivver,"  her  husband  protested, 
for  the  sound  to  w^hich  his  wife  had  taken  exception  was  the 
unsubdued  rattle  of  his  braces  on  the  bedroom  floor.  **Thoo 
wouldn't  ha'  me  get  into  bed  wi'  'em  on." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  429 

She  cried  *'Wisht!"  again,  more  peremptorily.  "Hod  thy 
noise.     Don't  talk  so  fond.     What's  yon?" 

To  town  ears  it  would  have  seemed  anything  rather  than  the 
thing  it  was:  the  sound  of  the  carrier's  breathing;  the  straining 
of  his  stockinged  feet  upon  the  thinly  carpeted  floor ;  the  creak 
of  the  carrier's  wife's  corset,  or  the  rustle  of  her  dress — any- 
thing, indeed,  but  a  horse  and  trap,  so  indistinct  and  distant 
as  to  suggest  no  vestige  of  interest  or  topic  for  speculation  to 
town-bred  hearing.  But  to  the  carrier's  wife,  versed  in  all  the 
likely  times  of  every  likely  noise,  and  knowing  the  approximate 
hour  of  every  horse  and  cart  upon  the  road,  such  an  unexpected 
sound  came  as  opportune  and  as  richly  charged  with  possibilities 
as  any  street  accident  to  dwellers  in  the  city.  "It*s  not  Warkup 
cart.  ...  It  can't  be  Marritt.  .  .  .  Yon's  too  brisk  for  Stevens* 
galloway.  Draper  dizzn't  call  while  Friday.  Butcher's  not 
like  to  come  round  by  Mersham.  .  .  .  Nay!  Nor  it's  not 
Vicar  wi'  buggy.  Can  it  be  Rector,  think  ye?"  She  arrived 
at  hypothesis  by  swift  exhaustion  of  probabilities.  "Hark! 
Aye.  That's  him !  She  clicked  again.  Yon's  Rector*s  mare 
fro*  Mersham.'* 

Her  husband,  more  intent  on  bed  than  speculation,  answered 
laconically,  "Not  it,  missus.     Get  into  bed  wi'  thee.** 

"If  it  isn't  Rector's  mare  and  trap,  who  is  it,  then?'*  she 
demanded  conclusively;  and  as  her  husband  made  no  imme- 
diate answer,  took  her  triumph  whilst  she  had  it.  "It's  his, 
thoo  may  depend.  Nobbut  thoo  listens  thoo'll  hear  trap  drive 
back  again.  What's  it  doing  oot  this  time  0*  night?  Not 
fetching  doctor  fro*  Merensea?  That's  ower  far.  Beside 
.  .  .  Merensea  doctor  dizzn't  attend  *em.  Nor  it  can't  be 
going  to  station,  hooiwer,  for  Whiwle's  a  good  two  mile 
farther  to  drive  than  Mersham.  ...  Is  it  going  to  vicarage, 
think  ye?  Noo,  you  may  depend!  As  like  as  not  Rector's 
driving  himself.  Robert!  Diz  thoo  hear?  What's  thoo  do- 
ing?    Don't  tell  me  thoo's  dropped  asleep  already!" 

Not  that  she  needed  any  assistance  from  her  husband  on 


430  F  O  N  D  I  E 

behalf  of  her  own  certitude  that  was  independent  alike  of  his 
acquiescence  or  his  contradiction.  And  her  certitude  was  right. 
It  was  the  Rector's  mare  and  the  Rector's  dogcart,  and  the 
Rector's  self  with  the  Rector's  gardener-groom  beside  him,  that 
rounded  the  corner  into  Whivvle,  and  passed  down  the  main 
street  as  Fondie  passed  up.  And  although  Fondie  met  the  trap 
and  its  two  occupants  face  to  face,  and  the  lamplight  flashed 
into  his  eyes  at  point-blank  range,  and  he  saw  foam  flecked 
from  the  horse's  bit,  he  knew  (being  Fondie)  less  concerning 
the  horse  and  vehicle  than  did  the  carrier's  wife,  withdrawing 
hairpins  from  her  head  behind  the  small  candle-lit  looking-glass 
in  the  bedroom  where  already  her  husband's  breathing  be- 
tokened him  well  on  the  way  to  slumber. 

Fondie  stopped  and  turned  to  look  after  the  trap,  it  is  true, 
like  one  who  wakens  on  a  sudden  to  brief  and  doubtful  con- 
sciousness from  dreams.  But  the  impulse  came  too  late. 
Already  the  dogcart  was  gone  from  sight,  and,  being  gone,  he 
asked  himself  no  questions  touching  it,  as  pride  and  proper 
feeling  should  have  done.  His  mind,  as  usual,  was  full  of 
other  things.  The  occupants  of  the  aud  hoose  were  back  again. 
He  had  shaken  hands  with  Mr.  Lancelot  whilst  the  old  gentle- 
nian*s  back  was  turned,  and  responded  to  Mr.  Lancelot's  sub- 
sequent expressions  of  fervid  gratification  to  be  home  again 
with  a  certain  Judas-like  misgiving — a  certain  self-reproach 
that  told  him  his  own  gratification  was  less  ardent  than,  by 
right,  it  should  have  been;  that  he  had  not  deserved  so  richly 
of  Mr.  Lancelot's  friendship  and  esteem  as  conscience  might 
have  cared  to  think.  All  his  evening,  subsequent  to  their  ar- 
rival, had  been  spent  in  company  of  the  occupants  of  the  aud 
hoose — and  that  not  idly.  He  had  lent  a  hand  with  their 
luggage;  he  had  rendered  to  the  old  gentleman  a  scrupulous 
return  of  his  stewardship.  He  had  disinterred  the  priceless 
family  silver  from  beneath  the  bed,  and  tallied  its  pieces  punc- 
tiliously one  by  one  against  the  old  gentleman's  inventory. 
And  he  had  helped  to  remove  the  winding-sheets  of  newspaper 


F  O  N  D  I  E  431 

in  which  the  priceless  paintings  had  been  swathed  from  the 
injurious  damp  and  light  of  day,  and  stood  with  his  heart  in 
his  mouth  whilst  the  old  gentleman  subjected  each  canvas  to 
the  terrible  scrutiny  of  eye  and  tactile  forefinger.  Already, 
with  Isaac  Marfitt's  wife,  he  had  seen  to  the  airing  of  the  beds; 
and  with  Isaac  Marfitt's  wife  had  made  these  up  again,  and 
fitted  the  rooms  for  human  occupation.  And  he  had  replen- 
ished the  scuttles  with  coal  and  pumped  water  up  to  the  big 
cistern  in  the  house  roof,  and  busied  himself  with  the  thousand 
and  one  duties  that  nobody  but  Fondie  Bassiemoor  would 
ever  have  conceived  or  undertaken — duties  that  even  the  paid 
flunkeys  and  fat-legged  menials  of  Mersham  in  Sir  Lancelot's 
days  would  have  scorned  to  do,  declaring  it  was  not  their  work. 
And  last  of  all,  he  had  made  his  best  respects  to  the  old  gentle- 
man and  said:  If  there  was  nothing  else,  sir,  in  which  he  could 
be  of  any  use,  he'd  take  liberty  to  bid  him  and  Mr.  Lancelot 
good  night,  sir.  With  which,  being  in  receipt  of  the  old  gentle- 
man's august  and  condescending  sanction  to  go,  he  went.  Mr. 
Lancelot  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  gate  (under  pretext  of 
locking  it  and  making  all  fast  for  the  night),  and  there  they 
conversed,  the  two  of  them,  until  the  old  gentleman's  voice, 
calling  on  his  grandson  impatiently  by  name  from  the  front 
door,  drove  Fondie  Bassiemoor  homeward  in  a  hurry;  at  least 
it  drove  him  as  far  as  the  wall-end  in  a  hurry,  when  (on  other 
evenings)  a  voice  had  uttered  "Fondie!"  and  Heaven  had 
blessed  his  ecstatic  eyesight  with  a  vision.  And  there,  for  some 
while  longer,  he  hung  on  his  heel,  inspired  by  this  hope — ardent 
at  first,  and  burning  with  such  keen  combustion  that  it  seemed 
every  instant  it  must  burst  into  the  blaze  of  realization.  But 
the  night  was  cloudy,  and  heaven  had  no  eyes.  He  walked  by 
way  of  the  lane  that  he  and  the  vision  splendid  had  traversed 
together.  The  rains  of  late  had  made  it  very  sodden  and  clarty 
to  the  foot.  Perhaps  for  that  reason  she  had  not  come  tonight. 
And  yet,  the  Blanche  of  old  had  never  been  deterred  by  rains 
or  roa,ds.     He  paused  by  the  vicarage  gate,  walking  swiftly  and 


432  F  O  N  D  I  E 

furtively  on  the  far  side  of  the  road,  like  a  thief  who  fears  his 
guilty  purpose  may  be  read.  Without  actually  looking  at  the 
gate — for  that  his  guilty  conscience  did  not  dare  to  do — he  had 
the  consciousness  that  it  was  void.  No  voice  hailed  him.  No 
suppllcative  whisper  stayed  his  foot.  He  walked  on,  swiftly 
and  furtively,  unchecked;  and  so  into  the  main  street:  steeped 
in  himself;  wrapped  in  that  deepening  sense  of  disappointment 
for  lost  endeavor  and  purpose  brought  to  naught.  A  score  of 
speculations  occupied  him  as  the  Rector's  dogcart  drove  by. 
Was  her  absence  omen  of  ill  or  good  for  him  ?  Had  she  thought, 
in  the  quietude  of  her  own  heart  and  home,  of  the  proposal  that 
his  lips  had  so  inadequately  made  to  her,  and  that  his  bosom  had 
reinforced  with  such  burning  desires  and  arguments  since  then? 
True,  there  had  been  no  question  of  her  meeting  him  this  eve- 
ning. Yesterday,  Indeed,  being  the  last  evening  of  his  service  at 
the  aud  hoose,  had  seemed  to  offer  a  better  justification  for  her 
coming.  Had  she  fallen  into  serious  trouble  at  home  on  the 
occasion  of  her  previous  return,  after  taking  leave  of  him? 
Or  had  reflection  on  his  words  deepened  her  disfavor  of  them, 
and  caused  her  to  view  his  presumption  in  a  stronger  and  less 
indulgent  light? 

He  did  not  know.  He  had  no  means  of  knowing — save  her- 
self. She  alone  had  power  to  solve  the  doubts  that  troubled 
and  beset  him;  she  alone  could  be  the  one  supreme  and  final 
answer  to  all  the  disquiet  speculation  of  his  soul. 


xxxni 

THE  Rector's  dogcart  drew  up  abruptly  before  the  vicar- 
age gate,  and  the  lamps  rocked  as  his  energetic  sixty 
years  descended.  "Keep  the  mare  moving!"  he  admon- 
ished the  groom,  to  whom  he  had  flung  the  reins,  and  hastened 
up  the  weed-grown  vicarage  path,  unwinding  the  scarf  from 
his  neck  as  he  did  so  and  loosening  the  upper  buttons  of  his 


FONDIE  433 

overcoat.  At  first,  fumbling  for  the  bell-pull  in  the  dark, 
and  not  finding  It,  he  thumped  Impatiently  upon  the  door  with 
the  hand  that  held  the  discarded  driving  glove;  but  almost  at 
once,  dissatisfied  with  this  too  muffled  and  Ineffectual  summons, 
he  groped  again,  more  vigorously,  and  found  this  time  what 
he  sought,  and  rang  a  violent  peal  upon  the  vicarage  bell.  The 
sound  of  Its  reiterated  ringing  had  no  terrors  for  him,  as  the 
sound  of  the  rectory  bell  had  had  for  his  more  humble  colleague 
in  the  Lord.  He  stood,  slashing  his  palm  with  the  glove,  as 
if  he  would  rather  have  accentuated  his  claim  upon  attention 
than  by  any  exercise  of  patience  have  sought  to  diminish  it, 
and  all  the  while  his  ungloved  hand  made  spasmodic  movements 
towards  the  bell-pull,  that,  for  the  slightest  provocation  of  delay, 
it  was  prepared  to  seize  again. 

Within,  the  bell  hiccuped  against  the  passage  wall,  and 
from  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room  the  Vicar's  voice  called 
tentatively  to  the  silence  beyond,  "Blanche.  .  .  .  Harold.  ..." 
It  was  a  survival  of  the  habits  of  that  bygone  lawless  day  when 
the  ringing  of  the  front  door  bell  caused  every  name  within  the 
house  to  cry  upon  the  other,  imputing  and  disputing  obligation 
to  the  summons.  And  that  the  custom  died  hard  was  evinced 
by  the  voice  of  Harold  from  the  kitchen-way  beyond,  demand- 
ing, "What's  got  Blanche?" 

But,  fortified  by  the  belief  that  nobody  of  any  consequence 
would  ring  the  vicarage  bell  at  this  unlikely  hour,  he  strode 
to  the  door  in  a  temper  to  reprove  any  too  presumptuous  visitor 
who  had  without  good  justification  chosen  this  time  to  disturb 
the  household  peace.  No  lamp  burned  In  the  hall,  and  In  the 
darkness  he  could  not  distinguish  the  Identity  of  the  figure  on 
the  step  beyond,  but  the  voice  that  exploded  In  his  face,  demand- 
ing if  the  Vicar  were  at  home,  allowed  him  no  room  for  doubt. 
He  said  "Oh!"  and  left  the  visitor  upon  the  step  and  went 
back  to  the  sitting-room,  where  the  Vicar  stood  in  an  attitude 
of  expectancy.  "Father  .  .  .  Mr.  PIcherley  wants  to  see  you." 
With  which,  angry  at  the  encounter  and  his  own  mishandling 


434  F  O  N  D  I  E 

of  it,  he  vanished  kitchenward,  muttering  imprecations  on  the 
house  and  all  and  sundry  as  he  went. 

The  announcement  of  so  august  a  visitor  as  the  Rector  of 
Mersham  bestirred  the  Vicar's  worst  qualities  of  apology  and 
effusiveness.  He  could  have  faced  his  Maker  with  more  self- 
possession  and  native  dignity  than  he  could  this  remote  connec- 
tion by  marriage  with  the  Mersham  acres.  He  shuffled  out  into 
unlit  hall,  full  of  expressions  of  concern. 

"My  dear  sir.  .  .  .  My  dear  sir!  I  am  so  sorry.  .  .  .  What- 
ever was  my  son  thinking  of!  He  should  have  asked  you  in. 
Come  in,  I  beg.  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  see.  .  .  .  Let  me  light 
a  candle.     Mind  the  umbrella  stand  to  your  right." 

The  Rector  wasted  no  time  on  greetings  and  cut  the  Vicar's 
effusion  short. 

"It's  all  right,  Bellwood,"  he  said,  in  his  peremptory  and 
explosive  voice.  "I  can  see.  Have  you  a  room  at  liberty? 
I  want  a  few  words  with  you — alone."  He  closed  upon  his 
own  entrance  the  door  that  the  Vicar's  son  had  left  open,  and 
rather  pressed  the  Vicar  than  followed  him  as  far  as  the  sitting- 
room  from  which  he  had  emerged. 

"This  will  do,"  the  Rector  said,  taking  a  look  into  it  over  the 
Vicar's  shoulder.     "This  is  all  right.     There's  nobody  in  it?" 

It  was  the  room  in  which  they  chiefly  lived;  in  which  (save 
Blanche)  they  had  their  meals;  where  they  had  supped  to- 
night. With  Its  back  to  the  hall  wall,  and  its  keyboard  side- 
ways to  the  window,  stood  the  pianoforte  of  Blanche's  fearful 
conflicts  of  the  past;  its  desk  folded  out  of  sight  behind  the 
high  bodice  of  fretwork  and  fluted  silk.  Its  lid  closed  over  the 
discolored  and  unequal  keys.  The  furniture  w^as  the  nonde- 
script Victorian  of  her  mother's  days ;  mahogany  made  mournful 
with  black  horsehair,  and  enlivened  with  antimacassars  of  col- 
ored wools — whose  effect  was  as  that  of  cheerful  topics  intro- 
duced to  relieve  the  darkness  of  a  funeral.  A  bronze  lamp, 
subdued  by  a  shade  of  perforated  cardboard,  stood  upon  the 
table,  and  beneath  this  on  the  side  nearest  to  the  fire  lay  the 


FOND  IE  43S 

open  book  that  the  Vicar  had  been  reading,  with  the  armchair 
drawn  up  to  it.  For  all  these  things  the  Vicar  In  his  profuse- 
ness  apologized:  for  the  carpet  slippers  in  which  he  stood  (con- 
ferring ease  upon  his  feet  after  a  long  parochial  round)  ;  for 
the  lamp,  from  which  his  obsequious  fingers  sought  to  coax  a 
more  appropriate  flame  In  honor  of  this  important  guest;  for 
the  fire,  which  his  abstraction  had  suffered  to  burn  down,  and 
which  he  was  preparing  to  replenish  from  the  coal-box  when 
the  Rector  stopped  him. 

"Not  on  my  account,  Bellwood.  No."  He  negatived  the 
suggestion  of  a  chair  that  the  Vicar  tendered.  "I  won't  sit 
down.  I  didn't  come  for  that.  I  came  ..."  He  took  two 
steps  backward  and  reassured  himself  with  a  flat  hand  that  the 
door  was  shut.  "...  You've  heard  about  poor  Leonard 
D'Alroy,  of  course." 

The  Vicar  said :  "Yes.  That  is  .  .  .  no.  Not  apart  from 
...  He  had  heard  nothing." 

"Not  heard  ?"  The  Rector's  face  assumed  a  look  of  pained 
and  protesting  Incredulity,  as  if  his  host  had  professed  ignorance 
of  Deuteronomy  or  the  Book  of  Job.  "Surely,  man !  Every- 
body's heard.  Not  heard!  Why,  I  was  even  asked  in  Hun- 
mouth  how  young  Mr.  D'Alroy  was  going  on!  You  don't 
mean  .  .  .  We  prayed  for  him  in  church  last  Sunday." 

Thoughts,  swift  and  terrible  thoughts,  that  by  rights  should 
never  have  suggested  themselves  to  any  Christian  being,  least 
of  all  to  an  ordained  and  reverend  minister  of  God,  swept 
into  the  Vicar's  mind;  but  his  lips,  concealed  behind  the 
tangled  beard,  subscribed  by  rote  to  the  formula  expected  of 
him. 

"So  serious  as  that?  My  dear  sir!  ...  I  am  indeed  sorry 
to  hear  It." 

Who  was  there,  the  Rector  demanded  with  the  fervor  of 
sincerity,  who  would  not  be  sorry?  On  all  hands,  everywhere, 
he  was  touched  by  the  expression  of  public  sympathy  and 
concern.     During  the  comparatively  short  period  of  his  stay 


436  F  O  N  D  I  E 

at  Mersham  his  old  friend's  son  had  made  himself  beloved  and 
respected  by  all;  by  rich  and  poor  alike.  The  first  word  his 
groom  had  said  to  him  this  evening  when  he  met  him  at  the 
Mersham  railway  station  was,  "How  is  he,  sir?"  The  people 
seemed  unable  to  think  of  anything  else.  He  was  their  ont 
topic.  Their  sympathies  and  anxieties  were  wrapped  up  In 
him. 

He  had  come  up  from  London  that  very  day,  where  he  had 
been  since  Monday.  Edward  D'Alroy  was  there  of  course. 
Terribly  cut  up;  terribly  cut  up.  He  never  saw  a  man  so 
altered.  Leonard's  temperature  was  103  last  night,  and  they 
had  a  hard  struggle  to  reduce  it  In  the  morning.  Their  great 
anxiety  was  for  the  boy's  heart.  The  doctors  had  Intimated 
plainly  their  doubt  whether  It  could  stand  the  strain.  The 
finest  and  most  expensive  doctors  In  England ;  three  of  them  in 
constant  attendance — Sir  Herlot  May  and  Sadler  Cromble  and 
Leicester  Wilklns.  And  the  best  nursing  that  money  could 
buy.  He  had  been  In  conversation  with  Sir  Herlot  that  very 
morning  before  leaving  town.  Even  If  the  heart  held  good — 
and  that  Is  what  they  chiefly  doubted — there  was  the  fear  of 
haemorrhage  or  perforation  or  pneumonia.  What  an  awful 
curse  this  typhoid  was!  Could  nothing  be  done?  Was  medi- 
cal skill  entirely  exhausted?  When  such  enormous  fees  were 
in  question,  was  It  Impossible  to  devise  no  treatment? 

It  was  plain  to  see  the  powerful  Impression  that  the  case  had 
made  upon  him,  the  troubled  emotions  under  which  he  labored, 
for  he  paced  to  and  fro  within  the  restricted  limits  of  the  Vicar's 
room,  drawing  the  driving  gloves  through  his  clenched  hand 
and  biting  his  lip  with  the  Intensity  of  impotent  concern.  Tears 
rose  to  his  eyes.  He  made  no  effort  to  conceal  them.  He 
knocked  them  from  his  lashes  with  his  knuckles  and  admitted 
the  w^eakness  almost  proudly,  saying:  "There!  You  see  how 
It's  touched  me,  Bellwood.  If  he'd  been  my  own  I  couldn't 
have  felt  it  more.  ...  I  loved  the  boy.  Who  didn't  that  ever 
knew  him?     He  was  a  D'Alroy  and  a  gentleman  to  the  back- 


FOND  IE  437 

bone.  And  now  .  .  .  To  think  of  it!  It*s  terrible;  terrible. 
Were  there  no  other  fellows,  with  nothing  dependent  on  them, 
who  could  have  been  spared  better?". 

To  such  distress  the  Vicar,  still  vaguely  wondering  in  mind, 
offered  the  pabulum  of  a  respectful  and  suffering  silence.  Com- 
fort of  the  common  sort,  administered  to  poor  parishioners — 
comfort  of  the  giving  and  taking  and  knoweth  best  dispensation 
— was  plainly  inappropriate  and  Inapplicable  here.  To  the 
One  above  that  never  failed — and  yet,  in  his  own  daughter's 
case  had  failed  so  signally — he  raised  no  voice  or  finger  of 
reverent  memorial.  He  sighed.  He  said,  "Ah!"  He  shook 
his  head.  "Grievous.  Grievous!"  And  to  himself  he  put 
the  wondering  question,  "Why  has  he  come  to  tell  me  this?" 
In  some  dim  way  he  seemed  to  realize  that  this  grief  that 
struck  the  Rector  was  assumed  to  touch  him,  too,  but  to  what 
precise  extent  or  purpose  he  had  no  notion:  only  a  hope — a 
feeble,  flickering  hope — that  out  of  evil  good  might  come,  and 
peace  emerge  from  suffering.  And  with  a  more  commiserative 
and  obsequious  voice  than  heretofore  he  begged  the  Rector, 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"No,  no."  The  Rector  put  up  a  prohibitory  hand  against 
the  chair,  as  If  the  chair  had  been  the  Devil.  "I  can't.  I  must 
not.  ...  I  have  no  time.  I  really  came  ..."  He  relapsed 
at  that  Into  a  sort  of  meditation,  still  pacing  to  and  fro,  and 
drawing  his  coupled  gloves  through  his  clenched  fingers. 
" .  .  .1  really  came,  Bellwood  ...  I  must  be  brief  with  you. 
Time  presses.  This  Is  no  occasion  for  long  words."  He  drew 
up  to  the  table  end  with  his  hands  and  gloves  upon  It,  and  said : 
"You  will  remember  our  speaking  together  some  weeks  ago 
...  on  a  matter  In  reference  to  your  daughter."  He  did  not 
wait  for  any  formal  answer  from  the  V^icar,  but  took  his  cough 
and  the  inclination  of  his  head  as  a  sufficient  acknowledgment. 
"Your  daughter  made  a  certain  charge."  He  corrected  the 
word:  ".  .  .A  certain  statement.  At  that  particular  time, 
I  regret  to  say,   I  saw  occasion   to  discredit  it."     He  add^d 


438  F  O  N  D  I  E 

rapidly:  "I  don't  blame  myself  for  that.  Indeed,  If  the  cir- 
cumstances were  to  repeat  themselves  ...  I  should  do  it  again. 
In  my  particular  position  towards  the  D'Alroys  of  Mersham. 
I  don't  see  how  I  could  conscientiously  have  done  otherwise. 
Such  a  statement,  when  it  involves  such  great,  such  serious 
consequences,  must  by  the  very  nature  of  things  be  viewed  with 
extreme  caution  and  reserve.  As  I  have  said,  my  position  of 
responsibility  compelled  me  to  discredit  your  daughter's  state- 
ment, and  similar  reasons  .  .  .  similar  reasons  compelled  my 
old  friend  Edward  D'Alroy's  son  to  take  the  same  course.  .  .  . 
But  circumstances  have  sadly  and  terribly  altered  during  the 
past  few  days.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  After  some 
long  and  earnest  consultations  with  his  father,  and  after  most 
careful  reference  to  medical  opinion  .  .  .  his  father  and  I,  we 
both  deemed  it  advisable  to  reopen  this  painful  subject,  and 
put  it  to  Leonard's  never  failing  sense  of  honor.  ..." 

Tears  rose  to  his  eyes  again  at  that;  tears  of  admiring  re- 
membrance. 

**The  moment  he  realized  what  grave  issues  hung  upon  his 
answer  .  .  .  the  brave  fellow  never  hesitated  a  moment.  Even 
on  that  bed  of  sickness,  truth  and  honor  did  not  desert  him. 
They  are  too  deep  In  the  D'Alroy  blood.  He  admitted  what 
perhaps  few  men  placed  in  his  position  would  have  had  the 
courage  to  confess:  that  his  relations  with  your  daughter  .  .  . 
had  been  intimate  enough  to  lend  reasonable  likelihood  to  her 
statement." 

The  Vicar,  overcome  with  the  momentary  blindness  of  emo- 
tion, mumbled  in  his  beard:  "Thank  God!     Thank  God!" 

God  had  come  back  again,  after  this  long  absence.  God  was 
returned.  The  spiritual  eye  might  with  safety  now  be  opened. 
Faith  was  to  receive  its  vindication.  It  comforted  him  inex- 
pressibly to  reflect  that,  despite  all,  he  had  never  really  doubted. 
He  might  still  live  to  see  the  revival  of  family  prayer  in  his  own 
home. 

The  Rector,  taking  the  gloves  up  between  both  hands  and 


FONDIE 


439 


forcing  them  down  upon  the  table  with  an  action  expressive  of 
emphasis,  looked  the  Vicar  squarely  In  the  face. 

"On  your  word  of  honor,  Bellwood — on  your  oath:  is  your 
daughter  actually  in  the  state  you  said  she  was?" 

The  question,  launched  in  the  Rector's  hardest,  most  concen- 
trated tones,  shook  all  the  Vicar's  composure. 

"My  dear  sir.  .  .  .  For  anything  I  know  to  the  contrary,  she 
was  .  .  .  and  still  is." 

"For  anything  you  know  to  the  contrary?"  the  Rector 
repeated,  and  his  voice  and  eye  were  accusingly  hard.  "Do 
you  mean  ...  do  you  mean  you  actually  came  to  me  that  night 
with  no  better  evidence  of  the  truth  of  your  daughter's  condi- 
tion than  that  you  knew  nothing  to  the  contrary?  Didn't  you 
submit  her  to  some  independent  and  unbiased  opinion?  Has 
no  doctor  seen  her?  .  .  .  No?"  His  surprise  at  the  Vicar's 
lack  of  ordinary  precaution  amounted  almost  to  indignation. 
"Then  how  do  you  know  she's  in  any  particular  condition  at 
all  ?  Perhaps  she  isn't.  Perhaps  she  never  has  been.  Perhaps 
all  the  time  you've  been  hoping  she  wasn't." 

He  fixed  the  Vicar  with  an  eye  of  challenge  before  which  the 
Vicar's  conscience  quailed.  There  was  truth  in  the  charge. 
All  this  while,  with  that  Christian  shiftlessness  that  had  been 
his  course,  he  had  suffered  himself  to  hope  that  the  trouble, 
insurmountable  as  at  the  time  it  seemed,  would  die  away  like 
the  gathering  thunder-storm  that  threatens  but  does  not  break. 
He  had  asked  no  questions.  He  had  studiously  kept  his  eye 
from  resting  too  closely  on  his  daughter  lest,  under  its  anxious 
gaze,  the  thing  might  grow.  In  the  silence  that  lay  between 
them  he  had  striven  to  think  it  might  eventually  lose  itself. 
In  the  evidence  of  her  new  resolve  he  had  comforted  himself 
in  the  belief  that  there  was  hope;  a  new  awakening;  a  better 
life. 

"What  grounds  have  you  to  go  on,  Bellwood?"  he  heard  the 
Rector  ask  him.  "You  told  me  your  daughter  was  pregnant. 
Is  she  or  isn't  she?     Everything  hangs  on  that.     If  she  isn't 


440  F  O  N  D  I  E 

.  .  .  what  am  I  doing  here?  What's  brought  me  back  from 
town?  It's  the  crux  of  the  whole  business.  Come!  What 
have  you  got  to  say?" 

For  a  time,  indeed,  singularly  little.  And  then  he  began  tQ 
discern  many  things  to  say;  innumerable  things  to  sa}'.  Things 
his  folly  had  interpreted  as  hope,  that  spelled  the  blackest 
syllables  of  despair.  The  blood,  long  withheld  from  his  brain, 
rushed  back  once  more  and  made  the  pulses  in  his  temple  throb. 

"There  is  no  question  ..."  he  told  the  Rector,  with  the 
conviction  of  righteousness  and  wrath.  "Her  whole  attitude 
toward  me,  toward  her  home,  toward  the  world  .  .  .  goes  to 
prove  it.  Since  the  day  I  called  on  you  she  has  never  once 
been  out  of  doors.  I  cannot  prevail  on  her  .  .  .  even  for  her 
health's  sake.  She  will  not  suffer  herself  to  be  seen.  She  does 
not  even  take  her  meals  with  me.  She  is  awfully  .  .  .  terribly 
altered.  She  has  lost  all  interest  in  things  around  her.  She 
has  no  pleasure  in  life.  Would  to  God  I  might  tell  you 
otherwise." 

His  words,  poured  out  of  a  troubled  and  fervid  bosom,  that 
agitated  his  beard  and  made  his  head  to  shake,  appeared  to 
weigh  with  the  Rector  at  last. 

"For  the  present  .  .  .  admitting  that  it  is  so,"  he  said, 
" — and  the  point  must  be  established  without  delay — I  want 
to  tell  you,  Bellwood,  that  Leonard  D'Alroy  is  prepared  to 
make  your  daughter  full  reparation.  At  once.  Immediately. 
There  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  .  .  ."  Emotion  seized  hold  of  him 
once  more,  and  he  had  to  break  off  and  stanch  his  eyes.  "The 
poor  fellow  may  die  any  day.  I  fear  there  is  the  least  possible 
hope.'^ 

If  the  Rector  had  spoken  in  some  foreign  tongue  with  which 
the  Vicar  was  but  imperfectly  acquainted,  the  sense  of  his  words 
could  not  have  sunk  more  vaguely  into  the  listener's  intelligence. 
He  echoed,  "Reparation?"  in  a  faltering  and  uncertain  voice, 
as  though,  even  by  repetition,  he  could  come  no  nearer  to  the 
meaning  of  it.     "Do  I  understand  .  .  .  ?" 


FOND  IE  44t 

"...  He  would  marry  her?"  the  Rector  added,  completing 
the  sentence  with  his  own  more  expeditious  words.  "Yes  .  .  . 
he  would  do  That.  He  is  ready  to  do  That.  Poor  fellow. 
.  .  .  Poor  dear  fellow.  Not  a  single  thought  of  self  or  selfish 
interest.  Only  one  thought  sustains  him:  his  duty  toward 
Mersham  and  his  fellow-men.  If  anything  happens  to  him 
now  .  .  .  what  will  happen  to  Mersham  and  the  country? 
You  know  that  Edward  D'Alroy's  wife  is  a  confirmed  invalid. 
No  further  family  is  to  be  looked  for  from  that  quarter.  He 
is  an  only  son.  The  whole  case  is  incredibly  sad.  If  he  dies 
without  issue  the  estate  will  fall  into  litigation  again  as  sure  as 
eggs.  Nothing  will  be  left  of  it.  The  lawyers  will  get  it  all. 
They've  had  nearly  half  of  it  already. 

".  .  .  Of  course,  if  his  health  had  been  spared,  he  would  have 
hoped  to  do  infinitely  more  for  Mersham  than  is  possible  now. 
He  would  have  hoped  by  marriage  to  free  the  estate  from  all 
encumbrance  and  place  it  once  more  upon  an  assured  financial 
footing.  As  it  is  .  .  .  that  is  out  of  the  question.  Probably 
...  in  all  probability,  I  grieve  to  say  ...  he  will  never  live  to 
see  the  fruit  of  his  devotion  and  self-sacrifice.  I  dare  not  doubt 
what  the  doctors  tell  us.  The  word  of  a  physician  like  Sir 
Heriot  May  commands  respect.  Whatever  happens  .  .  .  your 
daughter  will  be  suitably  looked  after.  .  .  .  And  even  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  and  it  isn't  a  son  .  .  .  which  we 
shall  have  to  face  and  bear  like  men,  you  may  rest  assured 
that  Mr.  D'Alroy  will  make  her  an  appropriate  allowance." 

Rapidly,  now  standing  at  the  table  end,  now  pacing  to  and 
fro,  and  perpetually  toying  with  his  gloves,  he  expounded  the 
D'Alroy  plan ;  the  last  desperate  casting  of  the  D'Alroy  dice  for 
the  perpetuation  of  its  name  and  tenure  of  the  ill-starred  Mer- 
sham acres.  That  the  Vicar's  daughter  counted  for  anything 
in  the  project,  he  displayed  not  the  least  conception.  She  was 
but  a  pawn,  a  cipher.  In  her,  fortuitously — almost  providen- 
tially, as  it  seemed — the  D'Alroy  seed,  made  priceless  by  the 
prospect  of  extinction,  had  found  a  fertile  soil  and  germinated  j 


442  F  O  N  D  I  E 

and  all  the  fortune  of  the  D'Alroy  house  hung  trembling  on 
this  fruition  of  her  womb.  For  the  peace  of  her  tormented 
soul  and  the  tranquillity  of  her  care-wracked  body  no  effort 
had  been  expended.  So  long  as  the  stock  of  D'Alroy  seed  held 
out  in  health  and  promise,  this  solitary  and  prospective  stray 
might  be  suffered  without  concern  to  run  wild  and  waste,  and 
take  its  chance  in  conflict  with  the  common,  nameless  stock. 
But  now  her  body  was  become  the  garden  of  the  D'Alroy 
hopes,  and  that  which  grew  in  it  must  be  nurtured  and  cultivated 
with  scrupulous  care.  So  high  a  destiny  made  all  resistance 
of  it,  in  the  Rector's  mind,  unthinkable.  All  he  comprehended 
was  that  time  pressed;  that  every  moment  involved  a  threat 
to  the  preservation  of  the  D'Alroy  house.  He  said  to  the 
Vicar : 

"Well.  ...  So  you  understand.  Tomorrow  morning  by 
the  first  train  I  must  return  to  London.  I  have  promised 
D'Alroy  to  do  so.  Your  daughter  had  better  follow  in  the 
course  of  the  morning.  You'll  accompany  her,  of  course. 
Stop.  ...  It  would  be  better  if  I  see  her  before  I  leave. 
This  is  a  matter  in  which  one  must  risk  no  misunderstanding. 
Where  is  she?  Will  you  let  her  know,  Bellwood?  You  can 
just  explain  what  I've  told  you,  first  ...  if  you  like.  It  will 
make  things  easier.  No,  no.  I  won't  sit  down.  I  must  keep 
on  the  move.     I  can't  rest." 


XXXIV 

TO  the  Vicar,  all  that  he  saw  and  heard  assumed  once 
again  the  bewildering  air  of  unreality  that  had  cloaked 
Trouble  so  monstrously  when  first  it  came  upon  him. 
His  daughter  marry  the  dying  son  of  the  Squire  of  Mersham? 
Surely,  it  was  impossible;  the  distorted  recollection  of  some 
story  once  perused  in  youth.  Yet  he  obeyed  the  Rector's  order 
by  a  mechanical  subscription  to  the  social   authority  of  his 


FONDIE  443 

guest,  and  went  forth  dazed  and  speculating  into  the  darkened 
hall.  The  figure  of  his  son,  against  which  he  cannonaded  at 
the  entrance  to  the  kitchen  passage,  whither  Harold  had  hastily- 
retreated  from  a  point  considerably  nearer  the  sitting-room 
door,  startled  him  into  a  vivid  consciousness  of  self. 

**Lx)ok  out  ..."  his  son  admonished  him  in  a  smothered 
voice  of  warning,  "I'm  here." 

"You  startled  me Where's  Blanche?" 

"What's  he  come  about?"  his  son  demanded.  Both  of  them 
spoke  in  whispers,  like  burglars  confabulating  in  a  strange 
house. 

The  Vicar  pushed  him  back  toward  the  kitchen  with  an 
urgent  hand.  "I  have  not  time.  ...  I  cannot  stop  to  explain. 
Where  is  your  sister?" 

Defrauded  of  the  explanation  to  which  his  curiosity,  stimu- 
lated by  what  it  had  already  heard  through  the  woodwork  of 
the  sitting-room  door,  deemed  itself  entitled,  Harold  relapsed 
into  a  state  af  aggrievement.  "How  should  /  know  where  she 
is.  She's  not  in  the  kitchen.  What  on  earth  did  you  send  me 
to  the  door  for?  It's  not  my  business  to  go  to  the  door.  I 
didn't  want  to  see  him,     I  wouldn't  have  gone  if  I'd  known." 

The  Vicar  cast  a  troubled  glance  into  the  empty  kitchen,  lit 
by  Its  smaller  lamp,  that  would  under  ordinary  conditions  have 
held  his  daughter.  "Is  she  upstairs?  Has  Blanche  gone  to 
bed?  Make  haste.  Go  and  see,  Harold.  There  is  no  time 
to  lose." 

Expressing  by  muttered  word  and  appropriate  action  that 
such  work  constituted  by  no  means  part  of  his  business,  Harold 
moved  sulkily  on  his  errand.  Blanche  ought  to  have  been  in 
the  kitchen  when  she  was  wanted.  She  ought  to  have  been 
ready  to  answer  the  bell — it  was  a  girl's  task,  not  a  fellow's. 
It  wasn't  for  him  to  run  about  after  Blanche  every  time  she 
wasn't  where  she  ought  to  be.  He  returned  shortly,  with 
resentment  more  pronounced  upon  his  face  and  lips.  His 
journey  had  been  fruitless.  "Blanche  isn't  there." 
29 


444  FONDIE 

"Isn't  there!"  his  father  protested,  to  whom  every  moment 
of  his  son's  time  had  seemed  a  century  made  terrible  by  the 
knowledge  of  the  august  presence  kept  waiting  behind  the  sit- 
ting-room door.     "Not  there?     She  must  be  there." 

"She  isnt  there/*  his  son  reiterated.  ^Tve  looked.  Go  and 
look  for  yourself  if  you  don't  believe  me." 

"Looked  ..."  the  Vicar  echoed  feebly.  "Where  have  you 
looked?     Surely  ...  in  her  bedroom.  ..." 

"I've  looked  all  over  that,  and  felt  of  her  bed,  and  behind  the 
door.     And  she  isn't  in  my  room,  and  she  isn't  in  yours." 

The  Vicar  said:  "But  this  is  terrible.  This  is  terrible!  At 
this  time,  of  all  times.  Where  can  she  be?"  He  slippered  his 
agitated  way  to  the  scullery  door,  and  put  his  head  into  the 
darkness  beyond:  "Blanche  .  .  .  Blanche  ..."  and  opened  the 
kitchen  door,  through  which  the  carrier's  wife  had  come  and 
gone,  and  called  in  smothered  urgency  to  the  outer  darkness: 
"Blanche  .  .  .  Blanche  ..."  but  no  voice  answered;  His 
beard,  when  he  withdrew  it  at  last  and  turned  toward  his  son, 
seemed  shapeless  with  anxiety  and  concern, 

"What  will  he  think!  What  will  he  think!  What  am  I 
to  say!  Wherever  can  she  be?  I  must  go  back  to  him.  I 
can't  keep  him  waiting.     How  must  I  account  for  this?" 

His  son's  earlier  resentment  merged  once  more  in  the  greater 
curiosity  awakened  by  his  sister's  disappearance  and  the  Vicar's 
distraction.  He  said:  "Look  here,  father.  What's  it  all 
about?  What's  he  come  for?  What's  he  want  with  Blanche? 
I  can't  help  you  without  I  know.  I've  a  right  to  know.  I'm 
her  brother.    I  shall  have  to  know." 

In  the  weakness  of  his  extremity  the  Vicar  did  not  dispute  the 
right,  or  argue  it  further.  Breathing  as  though  from  violent 
exertion,  and  with  spasmodic  brevity,  he  told  his  son  the  object 
of  the  Rector's  call.  "He's  there,  waiting.  .  .  .  What's  to 
be  done?     What's  to  be  done!" 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  in  Harold's  estimation,  was  to 
imprecate  his  sister,  which  forthwith  he  proceeded  to  do.    The 


FONDIE  44S 

next  was  to  seek  her  with  all  haste,  and  as  much  indignation  as 
possible.  He  ran  out  angrily  into  the  darkness  of  the  garden, 
whilst  his  father  listened  with  anxious  profile  from  the  threshold 
of  the  kitchen  to  his  subdued  but  peremptory  invocations. 
"Blanche  .  .  .  Blanche!  Do  you  hear!  Blanche!"  Into  the 
hen-house,  the  stick-house,  the  toolshed  he  thrust  his  head,  but 
no  Blanche  answered  to  the  wrath  that  called  upon  her.  He 
came  back  to  the  kitchen  where  his  father  stood  awaiting  him. 
"She's  not  there.    What's  she  doing?    Where's  she  got  to?" 

From  within  they  heard  a  door  open;  a  voice,  the  Rector's 
voice,  grown  impatient  of  silence  and  delay,  uttered  an  inter- 
rogative ".  .  .  Bellwood?" 

The  Vicar's  face  that  turned  toward  this  new  and  imminent 
source  of  alarm  expressed  blank  horror. 

"...  He'll  be  coming  here.  .  .  .  What  must  I  tell  him? 
How  must  I  explain  it?     My  God!     Of  all  times." 

"Tell  him  .  .  ." — his  son  Harold  was  infinitely  more  re- 
sourceful than  his  father,  having  no  principles,  Christian  or 
pagan,  to  consider — ^"tell  him  she's  gone  to  bed.  Say  she's 
asleep.  Say  she's  not  been  very  well.  You  don't  want  to 
wake  her.  Go  on !  You'll  have  to.  You've  got  to  say  some- 
thing." 

His  father  protested:  "Asleep?  In  bed?  .  .  .  But  that 
would  be  untrue.     It  would  be  a  downright  falsehood." 

The  name  "Bellwood!"  more  peremptorily  uttered,  brought 
protestation  to  an  untimely  end.  He  threw  up  his  hands  with 
a  gesture  of  despair  and  slippered  back  to  the  hall,  where, 
silhouetted  against  the  lamplight  from  the  sitting-room,  and 
framed  within  the  doorway,  the  Rector  stood. 

"...  My  dear  sir.  ...  I  am  so  sorry.  I  regret  most 
deeply.     Pray  forgive  this  long  delay." 

The  Rector,  ignoring  apologies,  came  uncompromisingly  to 
the  plain  issue.  "Well?  You've  seen  her?  Is  she  there? 
Are  you  bringing  her?"  She  might  have  been  a  heifer  by  the 
summary  method  of  his  allusion. 


446  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Unfortunately  ...  no.  He  had  not  seen  her.  His  daugh- 
ter ..  .  he  had  not  ventured  to  disturb  her  .  .  .  was  in  bed. 

"In  bed!"  The  Rector,  leading  the  way  back  into  the  room 
again,  spun  round  upon  his  host  with  a  look  of  blank  amaze- 
ment. "Good  God,  man!  Is  this  a  time  to  talk  about  bed — 
with  Leonard  D'Alroy  at  the  point  of  death?  What  are  j'ou 
thinking  of?  Here  I've  traveled  all  the  way  down  from  London 
today,  and  driven  over  to  see  you  on  a  subject  like  this,  after 
the  merest  bite  at  home  .  .  .  and  you  tell  me  calmly  your 
daughter  is  in  bed.  Is  the  matter  of  no  more  consequence  to 
you  than  that  ?  In  bed !  I  don't  care  where  she  is.  Wake  her 
up.    The  sooner  the  better.     She  must  be  told  at  once.'* 

The  Vicar,  writhing  in  impotent  despair,  began:  "My  dear 
sir  .  .  ." 

"Wake  her  up!"  the  Rector  interrupted  peremptorily. 
"Wake  her  up  at  once.  Do  you  expect  me  to  pace  about  your 
sitting-room  all  night?  Good  God,  man,  don't  you  understand 
the  state  I'm  in?     Have  you  no  mercy  for  my  feelings?'* 

"I  beg  you  ...  let  me  explain  .  .  .*'  the  Vicar  urged  upon 
him  with  desperate  insistence.  "My  daughter  is  unwell.  She 
has  been  unwell  all  day.  She  has  been  unwell  for  many  days. 
Her  health  has  occasioned  me  the  gravest  concern.  I  hesitate 
to  break  her  rest." 

"Unwell!  Your  daughter  is  unwell — and  Leonard  D'Alroy 
is  virtually  dying.  For  all  I  know  ...  he  may  be  even  dead 
by  now.  You  put  mere  indisposition  before  an  illness  such  as 
his!  You  consider  a  few  moments  of  your  daughter's  sleep 
before  the  vital  interests  of  Mersham?  It's  rank  madness. 
You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Bellwood.  This 
is  a  matter  of  honor  and  principle;  not  a  matter  of  feeling. 
Do  you  think  Leonard  D'Alroy's  father  cares  less  for  his  son 
than  you  do  for  your  daughter?  Yet  he  does  not  hesitate  to 
disturb  the  peace  of  his  son's  sickbed,  and  you  show  prepos- 
terous scruples  about  disturbing  your  daughter's  sleep.  Good 
gracious,  man!  .  .  ." 


F  O  N  D  I  E  447 

"Under  ordinary  circumstances  .  .  ."  the  Vicar  faltered, 
striving  vainly  for  some  refuge  from  this  terrible  position,  **I 
should  not  have  hesitated.  But,  my  dear  sir  ...  I  beg  you 
to  make  allowances  .  .  .  for  me  as  well  as  her.  Think,  my 
dear  sir,  her  sex  .  .  .  her  condition.  .  .  ." 

"Her  condition?"  The  Rector  threw  his  driving  gloves 
contemptuously  on  the  table.  "Why!  You  know  as  well  as 
I  know  that  but  for  her  condition,  as  j'ou  call  it,  I  shouldn't 
be  here  now.  But  for  her  condition  you'd  never  have  driven 
to  Mersham  to  see  me.  But  for  her  condition  we  should  none 
of  us  have  had  the  least  inkling  of  what  she's  been  up  to.  You 
beset  me  with  appeals  to  do  my  utmost  to  save  your  daughter's 
name  and  character,  and  when  I've  raised  heaven  and  earth 
on  your  behalf,  and  been  in  the  train  all  day,  with  scarcely  a 
bite  since  breakfast,  you  put  me  off  with  her  'condition,'  as  if 
I'd  come  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  A  favor!  Good  God,  man! 
I  declare,  if  a  strong  sense  of  principle  and  honor  didn't  re- 
strain me  ...  I  declare  I'd  put  on  my  hat  and  clear  out  of 
your  house  at  once,  and  let  you  whistle  for  your  daughter's 
honor  and  character  if  this  is  all  you  think  about  them."  He 
put  up  his  hand  against  the  further  protestations  he  saw  behind 
the  Vicar's  beard.  "I  tell  you  I  won't  listen  to  you,  Bellwood. 
Once  and  for  all,  wake  her  up.  Prepare  her  for  tomorrow. 
You  will  have  to  take  her  to  town.  If  there's  the  least  doubt 
about  it  .  .  .  she  can  be  examined  by  a  doctor  there." 

Silenced  by  the  Rector's  imperative  lips  and  ordering  hand, 
the  Vicar,  at  an  end  for  subterfuge,  went  vaguely  from  the 
room  once  more,  and  once  more  his  son  retreated  before  him 
to  the  kitchen,  asking:  "Well?  What's  he  say?  What  have 
you  come  for?" 

"Has  Blanche  come  back?" 

"What  do  you  think?    Of  course  she  hasn't." 

The  Vicar  let  his  hands  fall  to  his  side  in  token  of  impotent 
extremity.  "He  wants  to  see  her.  ...  He  insists  on  seeing 
her." 


448  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"Well,  he  cant  see  her,"  his  son  decided.  "Why  didn't  you 
tell  him  straight?  What  did  you  let  him  kid  you  about  for? 
I  heard  you  jawing." 

"It's  terrible  .  .  .  terrible!  What  have  I  done  to  deserve 
to  be  put  in  a  situation  like  this!  Have  you  been  upstairs? 
Have  you  called  again?" 

"I've  been  all  over.  I've  been  as  far  as  the  front  gate.  I 
couldn't  go  farther.  The  damned  trap's  out  there.  I'd  for- 
gotten all  about  that.  The  fellovi^  must  have  heard  me  call- 
ing." He  clenched  his  teeth.  "The  little  fool!  What's  she 
want  to  go  and  do  a  thing  like  this  for?" 

The  Vicar,  w^ith  an  apprehensive  ear  towards  the  passage, 
said:  "I  cannot  stay.  ...  I  must  go  back.  I  must  do  some- 
thing. He  will  be  calling  out  again  in  a  moment.  He  Is 
terribly  impatient  and  upset.  What  are  we  to  do!  What  are 
we  to  do!"  He  wrung  his  hands. 
^  "Look  here,"  his  son  admonished  him.  "You  know  jolly 
well  you  can't  tell  him  Blanche's  out.  If  you  told  him  that 
it  would  be  all  UP.  He'd  say,  'What!  Out  at  this  time  of 
night?'  and  he'd  ask  'Where?'  and  'Who  with?'  and  you 
couldn't  tell  him.  And  he'd  say  it  was  all  a  plant,  and  they'd 
been  had."  His  indignation  grew  rebukeful.  "If  only  you'd 
said  straight  out  she'd  gone  away,  when  first  he  asked  for  her! 
This  wouldn't  have  happened.  What  did  you  want  to  go  and 
tell  him  she  was  in,  for?  You  ought  to  have  said  she  was 
staying  with  friends  in  Hunmouth  for  the  night.  I  should, 
if  I'd  been  you." 

"But  what  am  I  to  say  now?"  his  father  besought  him. 
".  .  .  What's  that?  Is  he  coming  out?  I  must  go  back.  It's 
awful.  He'll  begin  to  suspect  something.  What  a  position! 
What  a  position  to  be  placed  In!" 

"You've  got  to  go  back  and  tell  him  you've  seen  Blanche," 
his  son  counseled  him.  "Do  you  hear?  You've  got  to  go 
back  and  say  you've  seen  her.  And  she's  very  much  upset. 
It's  put  her  in  an  awful  state.    You've  got  to  rub  it  in,  do  you 


FOND  IE  449 

hear?  It's  put  her  in  an  awful  state.  She's  carrying  on  some- 
thing fearful.  Chronic,  you've  got  to  say.  And  you  can't  do 
anything  more  now.  You'll  have  to  wait  while  she  calms  down. 
Do  you  hear?    Are  you  listening?    While  she  calms  .  .  ." 

A  sound  from  the  direction  of  the  sitting-room  caused  both 
their  heads  to  turn.  His  son  pushed  the  Vicar  hastily  towards 
the  passage.  "Hurry  up.  Go  on  with  you.  You  know  what 
to  say.  I've  told  you.  Don't  let  him  come  down  here.  And 
don't  forget  I  shall  be  listening  outside." 

This  time  the  Rector  had  not  left  the  room,  but  paced  to 
and  fro  between  the  door  and  the  now  fireless  grate  with  deter- 
mined folded  arms.  At  the  first  sound  of  the  Vicar's  return 
he  stopped  in  his  pacing  and  confronted  him.     "Well?" 

The  Vicar,  flushed  and  troubled,  said  in  a  low  voice,  "...  I 
have  seen  my  daughter.'* 

"You  have  told  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  she  coming  down  ?" 

"...  I  fear  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  .  .  .  because  ...  it  has  upset  her  a  great 
deal." 

He  drew  forth  the  handkerchief,  almost  forgotten  in  the  Rec- 
tor's presence,  and  blew  a  note  of  unutterable  distress. 

The  Rector,  fixing  him  with  an  eye  of  speculation,  said, 
"Oh!  .  .  ."  For  a  few  tense  moments  nothing  was  added, 
by  way  of  words,  on  either  side.  "You  explained  the  position 
of  affairs?  She  knows  what  is  expected  of  her?"  the  Rector 
asked,  and  the  Vicar  bowed  his  head  submissively.  "I  should 
have  been  better  satisfied  to  see  her,"  he  added.  "It  would 
have  been  far  more  satisfactory  ...  to  me.  Much  more  satis- 
factory."    He  clung  dangerously  to  the  idea. 

"She  is  in  no  state  to  be  seen  .  .  ."  the  Vicar  urged  upon 
him.  "I  beg  you  ...  my  dear  sir!  The  sudden  news  has 
quite  overcome  her.     Her  distress  is  .  .  ."  he  put  the  hand- 


450  F  O  N  D  I  E 

kerchief  to  his  nose  once  more  and  blew  the  word  rather  than 
uttered  it — ".  .  .  pitiable!" 

"Very  good!"  The  Rector,  freeing  himself  energetically 
from  the  state  of  irresolute  meditation  in  which  he  seemed 
disposed  to  linger,  picked  up  his  gloves  from  the  table  with  an 
air  of  reluctant  finality.  *'Then  I  suppose  we  must  leave  it 
at  that.  I  must  be  satisfied  with  your  word,  Bellwood."  He 
drew  on  one  glove,  and  regarded  the  other  with  an  eye  that 
seemed  to  see  small  satisfaction  in  it.  "I  must  confess  .  .  . 
it's  a  poor  return  for  all  my  labor.  Didn't  she  say  an3^thing? 
What?  No?"  He  drew  on  tho  second  glove  and  immediately 
removed  the  first,  the  better  to  button  his  coat.  *'I  tell  you 
what  I  shall  do,  Bellwood.  There's  nothing  else  for  it.  I 
shall  have  to  drive  over  again  to  see  you  In  the  morning.  I 
can't  leave  things  quite  like  this.  D'Alroy  wouldn't  understand 
it.  He'd  consider  it  most  unsatisfactory  and  inconclusive."  He 
fastened  the  last  button  and  put  on  the  glove  again.  "Look 
here.  Now  you  thoroughly  understand.  You  must  be  up 
early  tomorrow,  both  you  and  your  daughter.  Have  every- 
thing ready  for  your  journey.  Take  sufficient  with  you  for  a 
week,  at  least." 

**A  week?  .  .  .  But,  my  dear  sir!  Think.  Sunday.  .  .  . 
My  Lenten  week-night  services.  .  .  ." 

The  Rector  cried  intolerantly:  "Oh,  bother  those!  ^Vhat 
about  mine?  This  is  no  time  to  think  about  trifles,  Bellwood. 
You  can  come  home  again  for  Sunday,  if  you  like.  As  for  the 
other  services,  let  'em  go,  or  arrange  with  somebody  else  to 
take  them.  There  are  a  lot  of  chaps.  .  .  .  You're  sure  it's  no 
use  my  seeing  your  daughter?  Half-past  twelve!  Good  gra- 
cious! I  wonder  how  poor  Leonard  D'Alroy's  coming  on. 
This  will  be  a  bad  time  with  him.  I  daren't  think  of  it.  I 
dread  the  morning,  and  the  news  it  may  bring."  He  grew 
restrospective  once  more,  and  his  eye  moistened.  He  recalled 
the  Mersham  Show  and  the  marked  effect  that  the  son  of 
Edward  D'Alroy  had   produced   upon   an   admiring  tenantry. 


FONDIE 


451 


Not  one  dissentient  voice;  not  one  jarring  or  unpleasant  note. 
*Toor  fellow!  Poor  dear  fellow!"  On  the  threshold  of  the 
room,  between  the  lamplight  (already  growing  dim,  and  giv- 
ing tokens  of  imminent  extinction)  and  the  darkness  of  the 
hall,  his  soul  delivered  itself  of  something  that  was  not  unlike 
a  prayer.  "Pray  to  goodness  he  may  be  spared!  He  is  too 
promising  a  life  to  lose." 

And  so,  with  a  little  more  after  this  manner,  he  took  his 
leave,  and  strode  down  the  weed-grown  path  and  out  by  the 
gate,  and  sprang  into  the  trap  that  quickened  its  pace  along 
the  road  to  meet  him,  and  snatched  the  reins  from  the  groom's 
hands,  and  spanked  back  to  Mersham  past  the  sleep-sealed 
hearing  of  the  carrier's  wife.  And  the  Vicar,  left  standing 
respectfully  on  the  doorstep  in  his  carpet  slippers  until  his 
deference  knew  the  Rector  to  be  really  gone,  stared  out,  from 
the  commotion  of  a  mind  in  turmoil,  upon  the  dark  lineaments 
of  a  peaceless  and  portentous  world. 


XXXV 

EXCEPT  in  the  daytime  Fondie  Bassiemoor  was  not  a 
dreamer  by  nature.  He  either  slept  (that  is)  or  lay 
awake;  and  if  his  night's  rest  were  not  sacrificed  to 
thinking,  it  was  rarely  disturbed  by  dreams.  For  the  most 
part  he  had  the  blessed  faculty  of  slumber,  slipping  into  sleep 
as  easily  as  did  his  body  between  the  sheets ;  and  when  he  woke 
at  length,  it  was  with  no  greater  effort  or  difficulty.  But  this 
night  his  sleep  was  vexed.  He  even  said  things  in  it  (or  so 
it  seemed)  and  awoke  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and 
turned  tormentedly  upon  his  bed.  And  last  of  all  he  dreamed 
a  strange  and  vivid  dream. 

He  dreamed  that  he  was  seated  at  the  organ  in  church,  and 
the  young  gentleman  was  with  him.  He  saw  the  keys,  and  on 
each  side  of  those  the  stops;  and  the  music  on  the  desk;  and 


4S*  F  O  N  D  I  E 

the  empty  pews  beyond;  and  the  pillars;  and  the  windows  all 
around;  and  the  loft  beneath  the  tower  where  the  deserted 
organ  was.  And  all  these  things  he  saw  as  plain  as  plain;  as 
plain  as  ever  he  perceived  them  on  a  Sunday,  and  infinitely 
plainer ;  for  now  he  perceived  them  with  a  vividness  that  made 
them  almost  heartrending,  and  lent  them  a  significance  greater 
than  had  ever  attached  to  them  before. 

What  had  been  the  subject  of  his  conversation  with  the  young 
gentleman  he  was  unsure;  but  it  must  have  been  Blanche,  for 
Blanche  was  in  his  mind,  and  the  young  gentleman  fixed  upon 
him  a  long  and  melancholy,  reproachful  look  as  if  to  ask  the 
old,  old  question:  "Did  you  .  .  .?"  and  Fondie  hung  his  head 
as  though  to  give  the  old,  old  answer:  Why  no,  he  hadn't, 
sir!  And  all  at  once  the  church,  that  had  been  bright  before 
with  the  sunlit  patterns  of  the  windows  traced  across  its  pews 
and  aisles  and  pillars,  grew  (of  a  great  sudden)  dark  as  death; 
and  he  and  the  young  gentleman  gazed  together  at  the  blackness 
that  had  been  but  a  moment  ago  sunbeams  and  bright  glass. 
And  a  sort  of  horror  crept  into  their  eyes  and  hearts.  For  they 
knew  it  was  a  storm ;  and  in  dreams  a  storm  is  a  very  dreadful, 
fearful  thing.  Even  as  they  gazed,  they  heard  the  raindrops 
rattle  like  artillery  against  the  windows  and  on  the  roof.  And 
Blanche  was  out  in  it.  Blanche  was  somewhere  out  in  it. 
That  thought  stabbed  through  his  bosom  like  a  knife.  "We 
can't  leave  her!"  the  young  gentleman  cried;  and  Fondie  an- 
swered, "No,  sir,  we  must  go  and  seek  her!"  And  he  arose 
from  the  organ  seat  in  an  agony  of  impotent  concern,  for  he 
knew  not  where  she  was,  nor  where  she  might  be,  nor  how  to 
reach  her.  Again  the  fusillade  of  raindrops  struck  the  window, 
and  yet  again.  And  with  all  his  anguished  soul  in  his  eyes,  he 
awoke  with  the  sheer  intensity  of  looking;  and  lo!  the  church 
shrank  down  to  the  dimensions  of  his  little  bedroom  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  above  the  scullery  roof ;  and  the  organ  dwin- 
dled to  his  bedstead;  and  the  window  upon  which  the  young 
gentleman  and  he  had  fixed  such  anguished  eyes  diminished  to 


FOND  IE  453 

the  four-paned  window  at  the  foot  of  his  own  bed;  and  the 
raindrops  had  been  pebbles — for  his  awakened  consciousness 
was  quick  enough  to  hear  the  last  of  them  rebound  upon  the 
roof  below,  and  rattle  down  the  tiles  to  the  yard  whence  they 
had  been  gathered.  The  dream  and  its  reaction  had  thrown 
his  brow  and  body  in  a  sweat,  and  the  poignant  realism  of  its 
visionary  alarm  was  still  imprinted  on  his  memory  as  he  strug- 
gled out  of  bed.  Pebbles  against  the  window-pane  are,  in  the 
country,  a  traditional  announcement  of  urgency  and  distress. 
He  undid  the  screw,  slid  open  the  little  window  and  drew 
aside  the  curtain,  and  put  out  his  head  and  peered  below. 

"Aye?" 

"Is  that  you,  Fondie  Bassiemoor?" 

In  the  darkness  already  graying  towards  dawn,  he  made  out 
a  figure  in  the  yard  below,  with  its  face  turned  up  to  him,  that 
more  by  reason  of  the  voice  proceeding  from  it  he  recognized 
after  a  moment  for  Blanche's  brother. 

"Aye,  it's  me,  sir.     Is  there  anything  I  can  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  seen  Blanche?" 

"Why,  let  me  think,  sir.     It  would  be  .  .  .'* 

"But  tonight,  I  mean.  I  mean  last  night.  It's  morning 
now,  of  course.  Have  you  seen  anything  of  her  since  tea- 
time?" 

"Not  since  then,  I  haven't,  sir."  The  remnant  of  his 
dream's  reality  seemed  to  solidify  about  his  bosom  and  become 
actual  and  solid,  with  a  weight  of  lead.  "Is  she  .  .  .  is  she 
missing,  sir?" 

The  voice  below  replied  with  a  noticeable  shake  in  it:  "We 
can't  find  her  anywhere.     She's  not  at  home." 

"If  you'll  nobbut  wait  o'  me  a  minute,  sir,"  Fondie  said, 
"I'll  come  down  to  you." 

"We  can't  find  her  anywhere.     She's  not  at  home." 

The  words  rang  through  him  like  a  knell,  and  went  on  ring- 
ing all  the  while  as  with  desperate  haste  he  flung  himself  into 
his  clothes,  or  into  such  sufficiency  of  them  as  would  serve  his 


454  F  O  N  D  I  E 

purpose.  But  a  few  minutes  had  passed  before  the  sound  of 
bolts,  cautiously  withdrawn,  preceded  his  appearance  at  the 
kitchen  door.  He  was  already  booted  but  collarless,  with  his 
coat  collar  turned  up  about  his  bare  neck.  ''I'm  sorry  to  ha* 
kept  you  waiting,  sir,"  he  said. 

By  the  gray  light  of  the  growing  dawn  the  gray  face  of 
Blanche's  brother  bore  a  very  different  expression  from  the 
expression  it  had  borne  last  night,  and  his  voice  a  very  different 
sound.  Time,  and  the  futility  of  vain  searching,  had  told  upon 
him.  Apprehension,  like  the  monster  that  it  is,  had  devoured 
already  many  of  those  lesser  moods  and  passions  that  take  their 
toll  of  petty  prey.  Vexation  had  been  swallowed  by  concern. 
Since  the  first  small  hour  he  had  ceased  to  imprecate  his  sister. 
The  last  time  he  had  muttered  oath  against  her  was  when  he 
stood  in  angry  expectation  outside  the  vicarage  gate,  his  wrath 
in  readiness  to  greet  the  returning  figure  that  every  instant 
seemed  as  if  it  must  reveal  to  view.  But  now,  before  the 
gravity  of  her  protracted  absence,  all  personal  wrath  was 
hushed  and  silenced.  His  face  and  voice  and  bearing  betrajed 
a  concern  purged  of  any  insensate  anger.  "We've  been  look- 
ing for  her  everywhere,"  he  told  Fondie;  "the  guv'nor  and  I. 
Not  that  the  guv'nor's  much  good.  He's  too  bowled  over. 
She's  not  at  home;  that's  flat.  I've  been  twice  all  round 
Whiwle.  I've  been  part  up  the  Mersham  Road.  She  wasn't 
there.  I've  been  a  good  mile  or  more  to  Merensea.  She's  not 
there  either."  He  pushed  back  his  hat  from  his  brow  and 
passed  his  hand  over  it,  and  blew  out  his  cheeks  with  a  mani- 
festation of  extremity  and  fatigue.  "We  thought  perhaps  you 
might  have  seen  her.     I'm  about  done  up." 

"Was  she  .  .  .  when  was  she  last  at  home,  sir,  do  you  say  ?" 
Fondie  asked  In  a  low  and  troubled  voice. 

"She  was  there  at  supper-time.  I  hadn't  got  back  then. 
I'd  been  away  somewhere,"  he  explained  hurriedly.  "But  the 
guv'nor  was  there  all  right,  and  so  was  she.  He  said  she  set 
the  things  the  same  as  she  always  does,  and  cleared  them  away 


FONDIE  45S 

again  after  he'd  done  supper.  I'd  just  got  back  and  gone  into 
the  kitchen,  expecting  she'd  be  there — I  wanted  something  to 
eat — when  old  Plcherley  called  .  .  ." 

"Old  who,  sir?"  Fondle  inquired. 

*'01d  Plcherley — from  Mersham.  You  know."  He  paused 
for  a  moment  in  swift  calculation  as  to  how  much  prudence 
might  confide.  "Look  here  ..."  he  told  the  wheelwright's 
son,  "I  know  we  can  trust  you.  You  know  a  lot  already,  and 
I  know  the  guv'nor  tells  you  things.  Old  Plcherley  came  to 
see  the  guv'nor  about — about  you  know;  about  Blanche's 
marriage." 

"Her  marriage,  sir?"  Fondle  echoed  blankly. 

"I  know  there's  been  a  lot  of  talk  about  the  business,"  her 
brother  continued.  "There's  been  a  jolly  sight  too  much  of  it. 
I  should  ha\»e  stopped  some  of  it  if  I'd  been  the  guv'nor.  Jolly 
quick.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Blanche  is  to  marry  young  D'Alroy. 
It's  always  been  understood."  He  was  rehearsing  upon  Fondle 
Bassiemoor  the  version  of  this  episode  which  his  judgment  had 
decided  was  the  one  most  expedient  to  be  made  public.  With- 
out feeling  under  the  necessity  to  enlighten  Fondle  on  the 
critical  condition  of  the  heir  of  Mersham  that  had  brought  this 
vital  change  about,  he  alluded  casually  to  the  projected  marriage 
as  to  a  long  accepted  thing.  "But  for  young  D'Alroy's  illness 
they'd  have  been  married  before.  Blanche  has  known  from 
the  first.  We  all  have.  But  we  didn't  want  it  talking  about 
by  everybody.  It  had  to  be  kept  a  bit  quiet  for  a  time.  There 
were  reasons.  .  .  .  Now  things  have  changed.  Everything's 
settled.  They  want  Blanche  to  be  married  as  soon  as  the 
guv'nor'U  consent.  He's  a  bit  thick,  the  guv'nor,  when  he  gets 
his  back  up.  He  says  the  notice  is  too  short.  They  haven't 
been  engaged  long  enough.  He  disapproves  of  such  rushed-up 
marriages;  he  wants  to  know  more  about  young  D'Alroy  first. 
Old  Plcherley  hadn't  half  a  time  with  him  tonight.  You 
know  what  the  guv'nor  can  be  like.  But  I  expect  he'll  give 
way  all  right  in  the  end.  .  .  ." 


456  F  O  N  D  I  E 

In  which  manner,  reconciling  himself  to  the  authenticity  of 
these  revised  facts  by  the  process  of  narration,  and  gathering 
assurance  from  the  reasonable  semblance  of  them  as  uttered  by 
his  own  voice,  he  recompensed  himself  to  some  extent  for  the 
anxieties  previously  expended. 

But  to  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  with  one  hand  holding  the  up- 
turned collar  about  his  neck,  while  the  lips  above  it  subscribed 
from  time  to  time  a  respectful  "Yes,  sir,"  or  "Indeed,  sir," 
this  new  light  upon  an  old  sorrow  made  all  his  conscience 
shrink.  She  was  to  marry  the  young  Squire  of  ^lersham? 
He,  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  the  wheelwright's  son,  had  had  the 
audacity  to  seek  to  substitute  his  own  wicked  and  unworthy 
self  into  the  sacred  place  that  one,  and  one  alone,  could  rightly 
fill.  Thank  God  his  mischievous  project  had  miscarried! 
Thank  God  he  had  been  hindered  from  doing  that  which,  with 
but  a  little  more  persuasion,  he  had  the  daring  to  believe  he 
might  have  done;  which,  no  later  than  a  few  mere  hours  ago, 
he  had  upbraided  himself  most  bitterly  for  the  default  to  do! 
What  answer  then  could  he  have  made  to  her,  to  his  own  con- 
science, to  God  and  all  the  world?  What  reparation  for  the 
wrong  his  selfishness  and  treachery  had  wrought? 

And  it  was  to  him,  to  him  of  all  men,  that  her  brother  turned 
in  this  moment  of  anxiety.  It  was  to  him  her  brother  told 
what  Fondle's  unsuspecting  nature  accepted  without  question 
for  the  truth.  He  did  not  know  that  this  same  brother  had  at 
first  openly  resented  the  Vicar's  suggestion  of  recourse  to  Fon- 
die Bassiemoor,  saying:  "Why  should  I  go  to  himf  What's  he 
got  to  do  with  it?  You're  a  jolly  sight  too  thick  with  him  as 
it  is,  and  so  was  Blanche."  No,  he  did  not  know  that.  All 
the  blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  turn  against  him  and  rush 
accusingly  to  his  brain.  For  one  moment  he  had  the  impulse 
to  exclaim:  "I  doubt  you  do  wrong  to  confide  i'  me,  sir.  I'm 
last  man  that  deserves  anybody's  confidence,  least  of  all  yours. 
I've  sinned  greatly  against  you  and  yours,  in  heart."  But  the 
impulse,  strong  though  it  was,  was  matched  and  mastered  by 


F  O  N  D  I  E  457 

the  inherent  h5T)ocrisy  within  him.  He  made  the  specious  com- 
promise with  conscience  that  is  the  grave  of  all  good  resolu- 
tions, all  good  deeds.  Conscience  should  keep  silence  and 
compound  the  sin  in  him ;  but  henceforth  conscience  should  be 
his  guide.  He  had  erred  against  them,  but  to  the  best  of  the 
power  within  him  would  he  now  atone.  He  would  help  them. 
He  would  seek  with  them.  Like  a  giant  would  he  shoulder 
their  anxieties  and  make  their  cares  his  own.  Whom  they 
sought  should  be  found.     But  where?   • 

It  was  her  brother  who  supplied  the  helpless  question.  "And 
look  here  .  .  ."  he  warned  the  wheelwright's  son.  ".  .  .  You 
know,  it's  jolly  awkward.  We  don't  want  this  talking  about. 
We  don't  want  the  business  to  get  all  over  the  shop,  and  back 
to  Mersham,  to  old  Picherley's  ears.  We  can't  go  asking 
everybody  straight  out  if  they've  seen  Blanche."  Now  that 
the  first  pride  of  communicating  his  sister's  ample  rehabilitation 
before  the  world  to  Fondie's  ears  had  passed  away,  the  old 
concern — temporarily  lost  sight  of — came  back  with  the  old 
force.  He  asked:  "What  on  earth  is  she  up  to?  What  on 
earth's  made  her  kid  us  all  about  like  this?  She  was  all  right 
at  breakfast  when  I  left  home.  I  can't  think  what's  come  over 
her.  Look  here,  Fondie.  Do  you  know  of  anything  that  might 
give  us  a  hint?  Do  you  know  of  any  place  she'd  be  likely  to 
go  to?" 

The  only  thing  that  Fondie  knew  was  locked  up  in  his  guilty 
bosom.  The  only  place  she  was  (in  his  experience)  in  the  least 
prone  to  frequent  was  the  old  house.  At  such  a  crucial  time 
as  this  even  hypocrisy  had  no  alternative  but  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Miss  Blanche  has  been  to  aud  hoose  a  time  or  two,  sir," 
be  said. 

"The  old  house!"  The  words  were  expressive  of  complete 
surprise.  And  then,  as  though  remembrance  had  come  to  the 
rescue  of  astonishment :  "Oh,  I  know !  But  that's  ever  so  long 
ago.     It's  over  a  year." 

"I  mean  lately,  sir,"  Fondie  corrected  him.     "I've  seen  her 


4s8  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Stood  outside  gate  when  I've  been  coming  away,  last  thing." 

"You've  seen  her!    What!    You  don't  mean  at  night?" 

"It  would  be  at  night,  sir,"  Fondie  answered. 

"But  what  on  earth  for!  What  on  earth  took  her  there? 
I  never  knew  she'd  been  anywhere.  I  didn't  think  she  ever 
left  home." 

"It  was  maybe  only  for  a  walk,  sir,"  Fondie  explained.  "I 
understood  her  to  tell  me  she  found  it  bad  to  bide  in  doors  all 
day.     I  may  have  been  mistaken,  sir." 

Her  brother  exclaimed:  "That's  the  worst  of  Blanche.  She's 
so  close.  You  can't  get  anything  out  of  her.  If  only  she'd 
been  open,  this  might  never  have  happened.  It  couldn't.  We 
should  have  taken  jolly  good  care  to  stop  her  going  out  like 
that.    She'd  no  right  going  out.    Why  didn't  you  tell  father  ?'* 

"Maybe  I  ought  to  have  done,  sir,"  Fondie  confessed,  with 
a  contrition  inclusive  of  larger  faults  than  this  they  spoke  of. 
"I'm  to  blame,  I  dare  say, -sir,  in  many  ways.  I'm  a  good  deal 
to  blame." 

All  the  while  they  had  not  stood  still.  At  the  first  mention 
of  the  old  house  they  had,  with  mutual  impulse,  moved  in  its 
direction,  leaving  the  wheelwright's  yard  behind  them,  and 
walking  with  a  swift  and  urgent  step  through  the  main  street, 
in  whose  upper  windows  the  nocturnal  lights — with  which  so 
many  rural  sleepers  defraud  darkness  of  its  terrors  and  make 
this  artificial  substitute  for  an  easy  conscience — still  burned 
here  and  there.  Day  was  breaking  fast.  Overhead  a  level 
layer  of  gray  and  heavy  cloud  oppressed  the  housetops,  seeming 
to  touch  the  smokeless  chimneys.  No  color  yet  had  come  to 
brick  or  tile,  or  grass  or  growing  thing;  but  there  were  hints 
of  hues  in  the  changing  values  of  the  shadows  of  the  lifeless 
world  through  which  they  walked.  Rime  was  on  the  roofs, 
and  the  early  morning  air  that  stung  their  eyes  and  lungs  was 
very  keen.  Far  away,  either  on  the  waters  of  the  Hun  or  out 
to  sea,  they  heard  the  smothered  siren  of  a  steamer.  But  at  the 
aud  hoose  gate — where  not  longer  than  a  few  brief  hours  ago 


FOND  IE  .459 

Fondie  had  hung  upon  his  heel,  hopelessly  expectant  of  what 
so  hopelessly  they  looked  for  now — ^was  no  vestige  of  the 
Blanche  they  sought.  The  mere  sight  of  the  gate,  surmounted 
by  the  torpid  trees,  served  to  dispel  what  hopeless  hopes  they 
had.  She  was  not  there.  She  could  not  be  there.  It  was  im- 
possible she  should  be  there.     Reason  might  have  known  it. 

.  .  .  And  yet,  where  could  she  be?  They  made  the  circuit 
of  the  aud  hoose  walls;  they  whispered  her  name  into  the 
shrubberies  and  hedgerows ;  they  stood  on  gate-bars  of  adjacent 
closes  and  called  "Blanche  1"  and  "Miss  Blanche!"  respectively 
into  the  gray  vague  beyond,  without  the  least  belief  that  any 
voice  would  answer. 

"I  doubt  she  isn't  here,  sir,"  Fondie  said  at  last,  telling  the 
other  no  more  than  his  conviction  knew.  "She'd  have  an- 
swered by  now,  I  think,  if  she  had  'a  been." 

"But  where  can  she  be?"  her  brother  despairingly  exclaimed. 
"What's  made  her  go  and  do  a  thing  like  this?"  Stress  of 
concern  caused  him  to  be  communicative  and  more  candid  to 
the  wheelwright's  son  than  but  for  this  he  would  have  been; 
for,  truth  to  tell,  he  held  small  brief  for  Fondie  Bassiemoor, 
whom  in  public  he  affected  (for  pride's  sake)  to  regard  as  his 
father's  organist  and  factotum — a  fellow  rather  than  a  man. 
"Look  here.  I  can't  reckon  it  up.  We  had  a  few  words  the 
other  night.  Not  last  night.  I  had  to  speak  straight  to  her. 
Since  this  business  she's  been  a  bit  thick  at  times.  Not  often," 
he  added  magnanimously,  "but  now  and  then.  And  I've  had 
to  stock  up  to  her  for  the  guv'nor's  sake.  You  know  what  he 
is.  He's  too  indulgent  and  easygoing.  .  .  .  But  it  can't  have 
been  that.  She  was  all  right  yesterday."  He  regretted,  almost 
immediately,  the  excess  of  confidence  imparted,  and  said:  "Of 
course.  Look  here.  You're  not  to  go  and  speak  about  it.  It's 
strictly  private,  what  I've  told  you.  I  don't  want  all  Whivvle 
discussing  our  affairs." 

Fondie  gave  the  required   undertaking  with   his  customary 

readiness.     "You  can  rely  on  me  not  naming  it  to  anybody, 
30 


46o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

sir!"  and  they  turned  their  backs  disconsolately  on  the  aud 
hoose. 

"Lx)ok  here,"  the  Vicar's  son  suggested,  "what  do  you  say  if 
we  go  home  and  see  what  the  guv'nor's  doing.  She  might  have 
come  back.  It's  no  good  going  on  searching  any  longer  if  she 
has.     What  do  you  say?    Shall  we?" 

Fondie,  helpless  in  the  hands  of  Destiny,  and  unable  to  sug- 
gest any  alternative  commended  more  by  likelihood  and  reason, 
said:  "We  may  as  well,  sir,  as  you  say.  We  can't  do  a  deal 
more  good  where  we  are,  and  I  don't  know  where  else  likelier 
to  turn  to." 

But  their  hopes,  fanned  into  a  frail  expectancy,  like  some 
precarious  flame,  by  the  air  of  their  rapid  motion — as  though 
such  purposeful  walking  could  not  be  altogether  void  of  object 
— were  dashed  by  the  sight  of  the  Vicar,  slippered  and  forlorn, 
who  emerged  from  the  front  door  at  the  sound  of  their  return, 
seeking  of  them  the  reassurance  that  they  sought  of  him. 

"Have  you  seen  her?" 

".  .  .  Has  she  come  back?" 

No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  On  either  side:  No.  She  had  not  been 
seen.  She  had  not  come  back.  The  Vicar,  who  in  his  distress 
had  gazed  upon  the  newcomer  without  the  smallest  sign  of 
recognition,  as  if  he  had  been  absent  or  elsewhere,  burst  into 
tears,  saying:  "My  daughter.  .  .  .  My  daughter.  Where  are 
you?  What  have  you  done?"  Behind  him,  on  the  hall-stand, 
the  candle  that  replaced  the  extinct  and  oilless  lamp  tossed 
Its  sickly,  pallid  flame  in  the  gray  light.  Awful  thoughts; 
thoughts  that  he  tried  his  utmost  to  resist;  thoughts  that  he 
dared  not  utter,  crept  up  to  Fondie's  brain  out  of  the  despairing 
helplessness  that  possessed  him.  They  went  the  round  of  the 
dreary  vicarage  garden  once  again,  responding  to  a  sort  of  rote 
that  bound  them  and  made  initiative  its  slave.  And  from  the 
garden,  when  they  had  proved  its  shed  and  fowl-house,  its  stable 
and  very  dog-kennel,  devoid  of  Blanche,  they  came  back  deep- 
ened in  perplexity  and  despair;  and  rote  sent  Blanche's  brother 


FONDIE  461 

through  the  vicarage  again  from  top  to  bottom,  with  the  same 
consideration  that  had  sent  him  half  a  dozen  times  before.  Per- 
haps (they  argued)  she  had  returned  whilst  they  were  else- 
where, and  stolen  to  her  bedroom  unperceived.  But  the  bed- 
room door  yielded  to  her  brother's  hand;  the  hard  light  fell 
metallic  on  the  creaseless  quilt  of  a  bed  unoccupied. 

"Not  there?"  her  father  murmured  piteously  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase,  where  he  and  Fondie  stood  in  grief  together;  and 
her  brother  answered  with  the  unchangeable  answer,  "No.  Not 
there." 

And  now  the  morning  was  upon  them  with  all  its  difficulties 
and  complications.  Already  the  sky  was  broken.  Red  and 
gold  suffused  it  in  the  east.  From  every  quarter  chanticleer 
proclaimed  the  day  with  his  triumphant  bugle.  The  birds  were 
astir.  Smoke  began  to  rise  from  chimney  after  chimney.  Soon 
all  Whiwle  would  be  awake.  Yet  where  to  look?  Where  to 
seek  her?  How  to  get  her  safely  home  again  from  the  peril  of 
these  alien  eyes  and  ears  and  tongues? 

At  Fondie*s  forlorn  suggestion,  he  and  Harold  visited  the 
church. 

"The  church!"  Harold  exclaimed,  when  Fondie  mentioned  it. 
*'That*s  no  good.    It  can't  be.    She'd  never  go  there." 

But  his  father  clung  to  the  suggestion,  divining  in  it  even 
something  of  the  remote  influence  of  the  hand  of  God.  Who 
knew — who  could  tell — where,  under  God's  guidance,  his 
daughter  had  been  led  ?  "Go,  Harold  ...  as  Fondie  asks  you. 
Take  the  keys.     It  may  be  providential." 

And  so  they  went,  taking  the  keys  that  Blanche  had  taken 
with  her  times  innumerable;  and  searched  among  the  reeling 
headstones  and  slanting  ledgers;  and  let  themselves  into  the 
sacred  edifice.  And  all  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  dream  came  back. 
Aye,  it  all  came  back — awfully,  terribly  back!  There  was  the 
organ,  there  the  pews  beyond;  the  aisles,  the  pillars,  the  win- 
dows, the  disused  loft.  To  still  the  utterance  of  despair  they 
searched  assiduously,  minutely.     From  the  vestry  to  the  very 


462  F  O  N  D  I  E 

tower,  where  she  had  led  the  young  gentleman  and  so  many 
others  in  her  time,  they  searched;  and  from  the  tower  they 
peered  in  all  directions,  east  and  west  and  north  and  south, 
as  if  they  might  have  seen  her;  but  more  for  occupation's  sake, 
to  keep  their  anxieties  active.  And  she  was  not  there.  God  had 
not  led  her  to  His  house.  God  might  have  done.  It  would 
have  been  a  simple  thing  for  God  to  do,  and  a  gracious  thing, 
beside,  towards  the  stricken  father  in  his  carpet  slippers,  with 
the  forgotten  candle  flickering  behind  him  in  the  vicarage  hall. 
.  .  .  But  God  had  thought  otherwise. 

...  So  they  came  back  to  her  home  again,  saying,  "Well?" 
to  "Well?"  and  "No"  to  "No";  and  the  Vicar  wept  again 
with  eyelids  red  as  dawn  with  much  watching  and  much  weep- 
ing and  infinite  grief.  On  their  road  home  they  met  a  laboring 
man  of  Whivvle  steering  his  way  to  Merensea  on  a  crazy  Hi- 
cycle  for  a  day's  threshing,  and  all  three  stared  at  one  another 
curiously,  without  a  word.  They  stared  so  hard  that  the  greet- 
ing which  would  of  custom  have  passed  between  them  was 
ground  to  nothing  by  their  stony  stares,  like  grain  between 
millstones.  Not  till  he  had  gone  by  did  Fondie  Bassiemoor 
suggest:  "We  might  ha'  thought  to  ask  him  if  he'd  heard  tell. 
.  .  .  He  looked  strange  and  hard.  .  .  .  Maybe  he  could  ha' 
told  us  something." 

And  Harold  decided:  "If  she's  not  home  this  time,  by  we 
get  there,  we  shall  have  to  do  something.  We  can't  keep  it 
back.    People  will  have  to  know.     It's  gone  beyond  a  joke." 

Till  that  time,  with  nothing  in  their  knowledge  to  lead  them, 
they  had  sedulously  searched  as  if  searching — only  it  were 
properly  directed — might  solve  all  and  put  an  end  to  their  anxie- 
ties. With  resolute  agreement  they  had  forborne  to  hint  at  a 
darker  thing  behind  their  seeking.  But  now,  with  bodily  weak- 
ness and  the  exhaustion  of  their  hopes,  barriers  broke  down. 
The  Vicar,  shaking  like  a  child  with  sobs,  said:  "God  knows 
what  she  may  have  done  .  .  .  what  she  may  have  been  tempted 
to  do!"     And  though  his  son  retorted:  "Oh,  shut  up,  father! 


F  O  N  D  I  E  463 

She  wouldn't  be  likely  to  do  anything  of  that  sort,  anyhow. 
Why  should  she?" — there  was  no  depth  in  his  assurance,  and 
his  gray  face  looked  at  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  even  in  uttering  it, 
as  if  he  besought  the  wheelwright's  son  to  make  these  senti- 
ments his  own,  and  strengthen  them  with  the  conviction  that  his 
own  apprehensions  lacked.  But  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  troubled 
face  with  its  downcast  eyes  lent  no  hospitality  to  his  hope ;  and 
all  that  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  lips  uttered  was  a  faltering  "It's 
to  be  hoped  not,  sir." 

A  sudden  alternative  illuminated  the  drawn  despondency  of 
Harold's  face. 

"It  can't  be  .  .  ."  he  said.  "There  couldn't  be  anybody 
else?"  He  looked  at  Fondie  Bassiemoor  with  an  incredulous 
and  inquiring  eye.  "Do  you  know?  I'm  at  business  all  day. 
/  can't  look  after  her,  and  sec  what  she's  up  to.  Is  there  any 
other  fellow  in  this?  Is  there  any  other  chap  we  don't  know 
of?" 

Fondie,  smitten  in  his  conscience  once  again,  shook  his  head 
and  answered:  "Not  that  I've  heard  tell  of,  sir.  I  think  not, 
I  should  doubt  very  much  if  there  was." 

"...  Any  chap  she  hasn't  told  us  about?  She's  as  close  as 
they  make  *em,  particularly  these  last  few  weeks.  She  never 
says  a  thing.  Do  you  think  she's  gone  off  with  anybody — with 
some  other  fellow,  just  for  devilment?" 

Fondie's  staunchness  murmured:  "I  think  it's  last  thing  she'd 
be  like  to  do,  sir.  Not  with  anybody.  There's  nobody  she's 
spoken  to  of  a  long  while."  In  his  cars  those  recent  words  of 
hers  to  him  were  ringing:  "I  shan't  stand  it,  Fondie.  I  shall 
do  something!"  and  all  within  his  bosom  was  chill  and  cold. 
"I  wish  I  could  only  think  it  was  no  worse  than  that,  sir," 
he  told  her  brother.  "It's  time  we  set  other  folk  on  seeking, 
beside  ourselves.  I  doubt  there's  some  reason  why  she  hasn't 
come  back.  .  .  ."  With  that  his  voice  broke  huskily,  and  he 
turned  his  head. 

"Look  here,  father!"  his  son  said  decisively,  after  that,  "Fon- 


464  FOND  IE 

die's  right.  We  can't  go  kidding  about  any  longer.  It*s  gone 
too  far.  We  shall  have  to  own  up.  We  shall  have  to  .  .  ." 
— he  hesitated  at  this  supreme  and  bitter  draught,  but  swallowed 
it — "we  shall  have  to  let  the  police  into  it.  There's  no  help 
that  I  can  see." 

The  Vicar  threw  up  a  shocked  and  protesting  hand.  "Tell 
the  police!  No,  no,  Harold.  Your  own  sister?  As  if  she 
was  a  common  criminal?  Haven't  we  suffered  enough?  You 
can't  mean  it.  We  can't  do  that  with  her.  The  place  would 
cry  shame  on  us." 

"But  the  police  will  have  to  know,"  his  son  contended.  "It's 
no  use  you  thinking  we  can  keep  it  from  them.  The  moment  we 
ask  anybody  if  they've  seen  her  everybody  will  learn  she's  miss- 
ing. They'll  want  to  know  when,  and  how  long.  We  shall 
have  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  things.  Whatever  happens,  we 
must  try  and  get  her  home  again  before  old  Picherley  comes. 
We  can't  kid  him  off  a  secohd  time.  He  wouldn't  have  any 
of  it." 

"It  is  terrible  .  .  .  terrible."  The  Vicar  subsided  with  that 
into  the  abandonment  of  a  grief  that  sought  no  longer  to  im- 
pose its  terms  upon  the  world.  "Blanche!  .  .  .  Blanche! 
..."  He  called  her  name  feebly  to  the  infinite.  "Where 
are  you?  Answer  your  father.  .  .  .  You  are  breaking  his 
heart." 

"If  I  might  venture  to  propose  it,"  Fondie  said,  "I'll  run 
straight  home  and  get  my  bicycle,  sir;  and  you  get  yours,  same. 
I'll  ask  anybody  I  chance  to  meet  if  they've  seen  Miss  Blanche 
anywhere,  or  if  they've  heard  tell  of  her;  and  if  they  meet 
anybody  else  that  has,  to  beg  them  to  call  at  vicarage  at  once. 
And  then  I'll  ride  my  bicycle  as  far  as  station,  and  inquire  if 
Miss  Blanche  was  there  any  time  last  night.  After  that  I'll 
go  round  by  way  o'  Mersham,  and  I'll  ask  there.  Maybe  you'll 
do  same  as  far  as  Merensea,  sir.  .  .  .  And  if  you  care  to  call  at 
policeman's  and  tell  him  trouble  you're  in,  I  don't  think  it  would 
be  amiss.  .  .  ,  They  can   use  telephone   a  deal   quicker   than 


FONDIE  46s 

we  can  cycle,  and  if  anything's  been  heard  they're  as  likely  to 
hear  ft  as  anybody.  Hadn't  we  best  blow  yon  candle  out  now, 
don't  you  think,  sir?"  But,  before  going,  the  solitude  and 
desolation  of  Blanche's  father  made  a  last  appeal  to  his  heart. 
Minutes,  now,  were  inconsequent  beside  the  hours  that  had 
already  passed.  He  said:  "Old  gentleman  looks  starved  and 
cold,  sir.  Shall  I  just  set  a  fire  going  for  him  i'  sitting-room? 
Then,  wi'  kettle  on  hob  and  teapot  on  table,  he  can  make  him- 
self some  hot  tea  to  sup  while  we're  gone."  His  son  returned; 
*'Oh,  no.  Don't  bother  about  that.  He'll  be  all  right — won't 
you,  father?'*  and  the  Vicar  said,  "I  think  of  nothing  but  my 
daughter.  So  long  as  she  be  safe;  so  long  as  she  be  safe  .  .  .'* 
— but  Fondie  had  his  way;  a  swift  and  comforting  way;  and 
the  flames  crackled  through  the  kindling  in  the  grate  and  licked 
the  coals;  and  the  Vicar  subsided  into  the  armchair  with  a 
groan  of  weariness  and  gratitude,  and  put  his  carpet  slippers 
on  the  shabby  hassock  that  Fondie  Basslemoor  drew  under  them; 
and  Fondie  Bassiemoor  said:  "Fire'U  go  nicely  now,  I  think, 
sir.  Kettle's  on  hob,  and  teapot's  just  beside  you  on  table, 
wi*  cup  and  saucer."  And  Blanche's  father,  with  the  flames 
reflected  in  his  tangled  beard  and  his  beard  abjectly  on  his 
bosom,  answered:  "Thank  you.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  my  dear 
friend.    You  are  very  good.    You  are  a  great  comfort." 


XXXVI 

THE  Rector  of  Mersham  had  some  of  the  qualities  as  well 
as  the  defects  of  the  country  gentleman.     Like  the  late 
Sir  Lancelot,  he  was  no  lie-abed.    This  morning  he  rose 
up  betimes,  for  he  had  barely  slept. 

Breakfast  at  the  rectory  had  been  ordained  for  half-past  seven, 
but  earlier  than  that  the  Rector  was  fuming  for  it.  At  a  quar- 
ter past  he  rang  his  study  bell  and,  appearing  like  an  apparition 
to  the  startled  maid,  on  her  hurried  way  to  answer  It,  com- 


466  F  O  N  D  I  E 

manded  her:  "Let  me  have  some  coflFee  now.  Never  mind  any- 
thing else.     I  must  be  going.  .  .  .  Are  the  letters  here?" 

"Not  yet,  sir." 

"Bring  the  bag  to  me  the  moment  it  comes." 

He  had  his  coffee.  The  mail  was  late.  He  paced  the  break- 
fast-room, watch  in  hand.  It  was  abominable.  Why  should 
the  mail  be  late  this  morning,  of  all  mornings  in  the  year? 
Not  until  twenty  minutes  before  eight  did  the  flushed  maid 
bring  the  post-bag  to  him.  What!  What!  Had  he  wasted  this 
time  for  nothing?  No  letter?  Not  even  a  card?  He  was 
amazed  at  D'Alroy.  The  distant  kinswoman  suggested  a  wire. 
True;  quite  true.  It  might  be  even  then  upon  its  way.  In 
any  case  he  could  not  wait.  She  was  to  open  it  if  it  should 
come.  He  took  his  leave  of  her  gustily,  breathing  fervent  hopes 
for  the  best. 

Thus  delayed,  in  spite  of  all  his  sleeplessness  and  preparation, 
it  was  close  on  eight  o'clock  when  the  dogcart  reached  Whiwle 
and  bowled  along  the  main  street.  Not  even  the  abstraction 
he  was  in  served  to  keep  from  the  Rector's  notice  the  fact  of  the 
considerable  interest  his  entry  excited.  He  could  almost  believe 
that  people  ran,  in  their  eagerness  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him; 
that  curtains  were  pulled  incontinently  awry,  and  street  doors 
opened  to  emit  observant  heads.  He  did  not  remember  that 
such  attention  to  his  appearance  was  customary.  It  made  him 
\Aonder.  He  began  to  ask  if  Bellwood's  discretion  were  as 
defective  as  his  feelings. 

But  when  the  dogcart  swept  round  the  corner  to  the  vicarage 
gate  suspicion  blazed  up  into  confirmatory  anger.  The  man 
w^as  a  fool.  Plainly  he  was  unworthy  of  all  confidence,  the 
least  trust.  Here,  clustering  about  the  precincts  of  the  vicarage, 
in  attitudes  of  ill-feigned  casualty  or  expectation  undisguised, 
w^ere  villagers  apparently  attendant  on  some  supreme  event. 
Idle  women  were  there,  with  children  tugging  at  their  skirts, 
who  rocked  babies  on  their  bosoms  or  stood  in  tattle,  their  bare 
arms  wrapped  in  their  aprons  from  the  sharp  March  morning 


EONDIE.  467 

air.  His  indignation  at  the  sight  of  them  rose  to  the  force  of 
an  expletive.  ''Damn  the  man!"  he  said  inside.  Had  he  no 
more  sense  than  this?  Except  for  the  urgency  of  the  business 
that  brought  him,  his  anger  would  not  have  tightened  rein  upon 
the  road,  but  would  have  driven  straightway  back  to  Mersham 
without  a  halt,  and  left  this  fool  of  a  fellow  to  his  own  folly. 
As  it  was,  he  drew  the  mare  up  on  her  haunches,  as  a  means 
of  venting  the  impatience  that  possessed  him,  and  strode  through 
the  gate  and  up  the  weedy  pathway  like  a  thunder-cloud  in 
motion ;  drawing  off  his  gloves  as  he  had  done  so  short  a  while 
before,  and  ringing  the  bell  with  a  vehemence  that  showed  he 
was  in  no  temper  for  procrastination.  And  as  no  immediate 
answer  acknowledged  this  first  summons,  he  rang  again,  keeping 
his  hand  upon  the  bell-pull  in  readiness  for  any  contingency. 
Let  all  whom  it  might  concern  know  that  the  Rector  of  Mer- 
sham and  fifteenth  cousin  by  marriage  of  the  late  Sir  Lancelot 
stood  without,  and  was  not  to  be  trifled  with.  But  no  third 
summons  was  required.  The  door  opened  simultaneously  with 
the  second  and  he  found  himself  confronted  by  a  curious  in- 
dividual, a  stranger  to  him :  a  young  man  with  a  white  face  and 
red  eyes,  who  looked  at  him  without  a  word  or  any  movement 
of  the  face  or  lips,  and  stood  as  if  in  this  posture  he  might  have 
stood  forever,  stupidly  staring.  The  Rector  clapped  his  driving 
gloves  together  and  put  one  foot  upon  the  step  as  an  indica- 
tion of  his  purpose  to  enter. 

".  .  .  The  Vicar  at  home?" 

.  .  .  But  of  course  the  Vicar  was  at  home.  His  words  were 
independent  of  reply.  He  advanced  into  the  hall,  and  the  white- 
faced  guardian  of  the  door  gave  way.  "Where  is  he  ?  Tell  him 
Mr.  Picherley  is  here.  What?"  For  the  white-faced  young 
man  had  seemed  to  murmur  something — something  dubious  and 
hesitating;  something  that  sounded  like  "...  I  doubt  .  .  . 
Vicar  won't  be  able  to  see  you,  sir  .  .  .  this  morning."  "Not 
see  me?"  He  turned  round  upon  the  white-faced  young  man 
as  if  incredulous  to  hear  himself  so  spoken  to.     "What  do  you 


468  .  FONDIE 

mean?  .  .  .  The  Vicar  has  already  arranged  to  sec  me.  The 
Vicar  is  expecting  me.  Miss  Blanche  ...  his  daughter.  .  .  . 
What?" — and  twice  the  young  man  tried  to  speak  and  could 
not. 

".  .  .  Dead,  sir,"  he  said  at  last.  With  that  he  turned  his 
red  eyes  suddenly  aside  and  hid  his  face  upon  his  forearm, 
whence  for  a  few  spasmodic  moments  the  tears  of  his  unmitigated 
weeping  rolled  desolately  to  the  floor. 

"Dead!  .  .  .  Miss  Bellwood!  The  Vicar's  daughter!"  The 
voice  was  no  longer  a  voice  of  stern  rebuke,  but  a  voice  of 
stupefaction.  ''There  must  be  some  mistake.  Good  gracious, 
fellow!  I  was  here  only  last  night.  Are  you  sure  what  you're 
talking  about?    When  did  she  die?" 

"Maybe  she  was  dead  then,  sir,"  the  smothered  voice  replied 
from  behind  the  forearm.  "She  wasn't  found  while  this  morn- 
ing. 

"Found  .  .  ."  the  Rector  repeated.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  *found'?    Wasn't  she  at  home?     Where  was  she  found?" 

".  .  .  In  pond,  sir,"  the  voice  replied.  "Pond  at  back  of 
vicarage.     In  paddock." 

If  the  white-faced  young  man  had  been  any  other  than  Fondie 
Bassiemoor,  the  wheelwright^s  son,  he  might  have  thrown  open 
the  door  and  drawn  the  attention  of  the  visitor's  scepticism  to 
the  stairs.  "Look,  sir,"  he  might  have  said.  "That's  wet  that 
dripped  from  her  when  we  took  her  up."  But  he  did  not.  He 
merely  stood  as  if  submissive  to  the  Rector's  (and  any  other) 
will. 

The  Rector  looked  at  the  forearm;  at  the  white  face  that 
after  awhile  reissued  from  it;  at  the  hall  ceiling;  at  the  stairs; 
at  the  hat-stand;  finally  at  the  gloves  in  his  hand — his  gloves, 
his  driving  gloves,  curiously  emphatic  and  distinct.  One  of  the 
thumbs  (he  noticed)  was  giving  way  at  the  stitches.  To  have 
uttered  what  was  in  his  mind  would  have  demanded  an  abler 
tongue  than  his,  for  many  things  were  in  his  mind — of  which, 
sad  truth  to  tell,  compassion  was  the  last  and  least.    All  Mer- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  469 

sham  blocked  his  pity.  Only  in  substance  did  he  stand  beneath 
the  Vicar's  roof;  only  the  material  portions  of  him  bowed  to 
this  sorrow  that  had  befallen.  In  heart  he  was  Mersham  still, 
measuring  this  tragedy  by  the  Mersham-D'Alroy  perspective. 
Good  Lord!  What  had  the  girl  done?  What  had  driven  her 
to  do  a  wicked,  senseless  act  like  this?  To  take  her  own  life 
was  one  thing  .  .  .  but  to  take  that  other!  To  destroy,  at 
one  fell  blow,  the  last  hope  of  Mersham.  What  was  he  to  say 
to  D'Alroy  now?  It  had  been  D'Alroy's  hope  and  consolation; 
the  one  thing  to  sustain  his  spirit  in  its  dark  and  sorrowing 
hour.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  For  some  time  he  must  have  stood,  studying  his  gloves 
and  thinking  thus,  with  nervous  hands  and  lips  that  twitched. 
Then  the  white  face  and  red  eyes  asserted  themselves  once  more 
upon  his  consciousness.  It  was  out  of  the  question  that  he 
should  communicate  anything  in  particular  to  this  young  fellow, 
who  belonged  ostensibly  to  the  mechanic  or  working  class,  and 
had  no  real  or  permanent  authority  in  the  Vicar*s  house.  All 
the  same  .  ,  . 

"I  suppose  ...  the  Vicar  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  then,  with- 
out exactly  knowing  why,  broke  ofl  to  ask:  "Who,  by  the 
way,  are  you?'* 

"They  call  me  Bassiemoor,  sir,"  the  white-faced  guardian  of 
the  door  replied.    "I'm  wheelwright's  son  in  Whivvle." 

"Oh.  ..."  It  was  all  the  Rector  uttered.  So  this  was  the 
carpenter's  son  he  had  heard  speak  of;  this  was  the  fellow  she 
had  spent  so  much  of  her  time  with.  It  seemed  a  curious  coinci- 
dence he  should  be  here,  taking  charge  of  the  Vicar's  house  as 
if  he  were  a  member  of  the  family.  A  spirit  of  resentment,  of 
indignation,  at  being  involved  in  such  a  discreditable  tragedy 
as  this  rose  in  him;  a  feeling  that  he  wished  to  shake  himself 
free  of  this  oppressive  atmosphere  of  ignoble  sorrow,  to  get 
away  without  delay  from  these  common,  dreadful,  unasslmllable 
people,  and  regain  the  spacious  liberty  of  Mersham,  where  his 
lungs  could  breathe  again  the  boundless  Mersham  air. 


470  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"It  IS  most  unfortunate  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Under  the  circum- 
stances, I  will  not  intrude." 

He  turned  from  the  hall,  and  the  door  closed  quietly  and 
respectfully  behind  him.  He  drew  on  his  gloves,  ignoring 
resolutely  the  ill-bred  stares  of  supplication  that  the  crowd  fixed 
upon  him  as  though  hungry  for  some  token,  for  some  sign. 
He  pulled  himself  into  the  dogcart;  took  the  reins;  drove  off 
without  so  much  as  a  second  look  at  the  stricken,  blind-drawn 
house,  showing  not  less  disfeatured  in  its  grief  than  the  counte- 
nance of  the  wheelwright's  son,  or  that  other  countenance  he 
had  not  seen.  This,  then,  was  the  end  of  all  his  thought  and 
labor.  This  was  the  reward  one  got  for  dealing  with  people 
out  of  one's  own  sphere.  Well,  well.  His  conscience  did  not 
reproach  him.  He  had  done  everything  that  a  gentleman  and  a 
rector  could.  And  there  was  trouble  enough  upon  his  mind 
without  taking  upon  himself  the  trouble  of  these  others.  Poor 
Leonard  D'Alroy !  Ah !  That  was  where  his  sympathies  were 
needed.  Perhaps  there  would  be  a  telegram  awaiting  him  at 
home.  Would  to  God  now  the  news  from  that  end  might  be 
more  favorable!  He  touched  the  mare  persuasively  with  the 
whip. 

xxxvn 

DEAD! 
Yes.  She  was  dead.  Blanche  Bellwood  was  dead. 
She  was  independent  of  all  rectors,  fathers,  brothers, 
neighbors,  and  the  world.  Free  of  all  restrictions  and  re- 
proaches; of  the  home  that  had  been  her  prison  for  so  long;  of 
persecuting  Time  that  terrified  and  taunted  her;  free  of  every 
fear  that  made  life  terrible,  and  hope  whose  sweetness  made 
its  cup  too. bitter.  No  longer  did  she  care.  No  longer  was 
she  frightened,  if  they  thought  she  was.  She  knew  now  the  best 
or  worst  of  that  Hereafter  world  to  whose  study  and  interpre- 
tation her  father  had  lent  the  best  years  of  his  life;  which  so 


F  O  N  D  I  E  471 

often,  and  with  so  little  heed,  she  had  listened  to  him  expound. 
In  a  flash,  in  the  twinkling  of  the  omniscient  eye,  she  knew  the 
things  that  troubled  and  perplexed  him,  and  that  still  he  taught ; 
and  that,  save  for  her  ice-cold  lips,  now  with  her  present 
knowledge  she  could  have  challenged  or  confirmed.  But 
Death's  safeguard  is  its  silence.  If  the  dead  could  only  talk 
of  death  as  the  living  do  of  life,  the  grave  would  lose  its  gran- 
deur and  serenity,  and  prove  itself  no  better  than  the  world 
from  whose  wickedness  it  claims  to  offer  shelter,  and  from 
whose  troubling,  peace. 

From  the  first  the  seed  of  this  dark  and  fatal  flower  had  been 
in  Blanche's  mind,  along  with  all  her  other  impulses  of  good  and 
bad.  It  had  grown  side  by  side  with  her  hopes  and  resolutions; 
the  same  tears  and  prayers  had  watered  both.  If  from  the  sight 
and  thought  of  others  this  mortuary  plant  was  all-concealed,  its 
gardener  knew  where,  among  other  shrubs  of  sturdier  growth,  it 
pushed  its  stem  and  spread  funest  and  melancholy  leaves.  In 
the  surreptitious  quietude  of  her  heart  she  visited  the  spot 
whereon  it  grew,  and  by  periodic  contemplations  accustomed  her 
courage  to  its  awesome  and  forbidding  aspect.  Always,  when 
life  seemed  terrible  and  her  punishment  too  severe,  after  every 
conflict  with  herself  in  which  her  resolution  fell,  after  each  hard 
word  her  brother  uttered  ...  it  was  to  this  dark  flower  she 
turned  for  fortitude  and  consolation.  At  last,  by  long  fami- 
liarity, it  came  to  have  no  terrors  for  her  in  the  contemplation. 
It  was  a  familiar  feature  of  her  mind.  It  was  but  one  alter- 
native among  many,  like  life  itself  and  suffering,  pain,  and 
shame  and  sorrow.  She  did  not  care.  She  was  not  frightened. 
If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  there  was  always  this. 

The  Blanche  of  old  had  been  no  thinker.  The  Blanche  of  old 
had  been  compounded  of  proclivities  alone,  whose  irresponsi- 
bility sustained  her.  But  the  new  Blanche  was  forced  into 
thought  by  the  pressure  of  her  circumstance,  and  thought  be- 
came the  medium  that  she  lived  in.  At  first  the  legendary  view 
of  sin  and  expiation,  culled  from  remembrance  of  her  father's 


472  F  O  N  D  I  E 

preachings,  had  urged  her  to  submit  to  her  state  as  to  a  punish- 
ment deservedly  Incurred — forcing  her  repentant  lips  to  acknowl- 
edge it  of  God — and  sent  by  God  for  her  soul's  cleansing.  And 
for  awhile,  immersing  herself  in  this  implicit  state  of  unques- 
tioning submission  to  the  Divine  will,  she  seemed  to  find  a  cer- 
tain consolation.  But  It  was  illusory.  Even  by  her  bedside, 
with  her  eyes  closed  and  prayer  upon  her  lips,  her  soul  dilated 
to  the  awful  reality.  Submission  was  but  a  shutting  of  the  eyes. 
Fact  remained,  unaltered  and  unalterable.  Nothing  could  re- 
move her  punishment  now.  Even  God  could  not  undo  that 
which  had  happened.  Even  God  could  not  restore  her  character, 
and  reclaim  her  reputation  unharmed  from  all  the  whispers  that 
fed  upon  it.  For  such  as  she,  prayer  was  unvailing.  If  only  it 
had  not  happened,  prayer  might  have  saved  her.  But  now^  .  .  . 
now  this  punishment  sent  of  God,  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
trumpery  sin  to  which  it  was  directed — now  this  punishment 
must  be  borne  to  the  extreme  and  utter  limits  of  her  life.  All 
her  life  long,  thenceforth,  she  must  be  submissive;  all  her  life 
long  she  must  bow  to  the  burden  of  the  Divine  will,  acknowl- 
edging God's  punishment  as  just,  God's  mercy  Infinite.  Oh, 
it  was  too  bad,  too  bad,  that  she  alone  should  thus  be  made  to 
suffer!  Why  could  not  he,  too,  be  forced  by  God  to  take  his 
share  along  with  her,  and  live  as  she  was  living,  and  suffer  as 
she  suffered  and  was  doomed  to  suffer?  But  God,  being  a  Man, 
favored  men  most  horribly.  He  let  them  do  things.  He  let 
them  do  anything.  They  could  please  themselves,  like  Harold 
did ;  and  God,  like  her  own  father,  took  no  notice.  Perhaps  He 
dursn't.  They  hadn't  need  fear  Him  and  what  would  happen 
them  all  the  time.  Oh,  If  only  there  had  been  no  God,  what  a 
different,  happier  world  It  might  have  been! 

And  yet,  her  quarrel  was  not  so  great  wath  God.  It  was 
small  ill-will  she  bore  Him.  It  was  not  God  that  kept  her 
thus  Indoors.  It  was  not  God  whose  eyes  she  feared  to  meet, 
whose  voice  and  scorn  she  dreaded.  What  He  had  done  He 
had  done,  and  got  It  over.     There  was  no  arguing  with  Him, 


FOND  IE  473 

but  at  least  He  never  worried  her  if  she  let  Him  alone.  It  was 
her  fellow-creatures  she  dreaded ;  the  world  of  sinners  like  her- 
self, whose  sins  taught  them  no  charity,  who  turned  suspicion 
from  themselves  by  decrying  the  sins  of  others.  And  then,  too, 
not  only  did  the  present  make  her  life  susceptible  to  every  taunt 
and  covert  look  and  whispered  word,  but  the  future  brought 
dreadful  possibilities  in  its  train,  and  traveled  with  a  terrible 
rapidity.  She  saw  her  father  dead  and  buried,  and  this  home  of 
intolerable  happy  memories  (once  called  sickening)  broken  up; 
and  her  brothers  dispersed ;  and  herself,  with  what  should  come 
to  her,  facing  a  world  ten  thousand  times  more  formidable  than 
this  dread  world  of  Whivvle  that  lay  beyond  their  door.  For 
who  would  want  her  then?  They  did  not  even  want  her  now; 
All  their  words  and  looks  and  actions  were  against  her.  For 
her  father,  at  Harold's  instigation,  had  written  to  her  married 
sister  to  ask  if  .  .  .  when  the  time  drew  nearer  .  .  .  and  her 
sister  had  replied  in  terms  of  indignation  and  refusal.  She  had 
not  seen  the  letter.  She  had  only  heard  it  discussed,  standing 
on  tiptoe  in  the  hall,  with  all  her  pride  on  fire ;  and  learned  its 
tone  from  the  tone  that  Harold's  voice  and  attitude  reflected 
from  it. 

Well?  Pride  was  not  going  to  be  beholden  to  anybody's  pity; 
not  even  a  sister's,  not  even  a  brother's.  Pride  was  going  to  be 
as  proud  as  them.  Pride  would  do  Pride  knew  what,  first.  If 
they  didn't  want  Pride,  Pride  didn't  want  them.  Pride  didn't 
care.  Pride  wasn't  frightened  of  them,  or  that.  Pride  wasn't 
going  to  be  lowly  all  her  life,  and  wear  sad  clothes,  and  keep  out 
of  people's  way  when  people  called,  and  speak  in  a  low  voice 
because  of  what  had  happened,  and  work  forever  at  the  things 
Pride  hated,  just  to  show  how  penitent  Pride  was. 

And  at  last,  exhausting  every  expedient  that  Care  could  think 
of,  Pride's  alternatives  were  reduced  to  two.  Pride  had  Fondie 
Bassiemoor,  or  (God  help  her!)  the  only  other.  Her  pledge  to 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  was  sacredly  and  loyally  kept.  All  day  long 
the   wheelwright's   son   and   his   proposal   filled   her   thoughts. 


474  F  O  N  D  I  E 

Times  innumerable,  to  be  at  peace  with  her  soul  and  burst  those 
iron  bonds  that  bound  her,  she  almost  cried:  "I'll  do  it.  I  wilL 
I'll  go  to  him!"  Almost,  but  not  quite.  Something,  when 
the  vow  was  on  her  lips,  caused  her  to  shrink,  to  waver;  to 
realize  she  could  not  do  the  things  her  desperation  begged  her 
to  do.    And  the  forbidding  factor  was  Pride — always  Pride. 

She  could  not  go  and  claim  so  great  a  sacrifice — even  of  Fon- 
die  Bassiemoor.  She  had  taken  a  bicycle,  money,  friendship, 
favors  innumerable  in  the  past;  but  this  she  would  not  take. 
She  had  no  right  to  it.  Nothing  in  her  relations  with*him  de- 
served it.  Until  quite  recently  she  had  proclaimed  him  sicken- 
ing, and  thought  him  so.  Now  that  she  realized  what  "sicken- 
ing" really  meant,  and  what  a  fund  of  generosity,  self-sacrifice, 
and  goodness  it  contained,  she  was  not  going  to  put  her  shame 
on  his  shoulders,  and  make  him  bear  the  disgrace  that  she  alone 
had  earned.  She  said  to  herself  a  terminative  "No,  no!  I 
won't.  I  aren't  going  to.  I  wouldn't  before.  I  shan't  now, 
just  because  of  this." 

And  then,  in  crises  of  the  most  terrible  solemnity,  curiously 
trifling  and  petty  considerations  take  their  place  and  participate, 
almost  with  the  force  of  determining  factors.  _  Why  had  not 
Fondle  Bassiemoor  possessed  the  courage  to  cry  "Tonight" 
when  her  hesitations  challenged  him  ?  Why  had  he  not  displayed 
that  quality  of  compulsive  passion  that  woman  looks  for  instinc- 
tively in  man,  instead  of  leaving  all  to  her  free  will :  freely  only 
in  name,  and  the  more  fettered  for  its  delusive  liberty?  He 
should  have  urged  her;  overmastered  her;  given  her  weak  sex 
the  respectable  pretext  of  force  it  needed.  But  he  had  not  done 
so.  If  he  had  only  pressed  her  after  this  coercive  fashion,  who 
knows  (she  told  herself)  but  that  she  might  have  yielded.  And 
an  element  of  instinctive  jealousy  mingled  with  her  bitterness 
at  the  fault  in  him.  The  young  gentleman  of  the  aud  hoose 
was  coming  back.  Soon  there  would  be  no  meetings  with  Fon- 
dle Bassiemoor  outside  the  gate.  Even  the  shortening  nights 
were  turned  against  her.    He  and  Lancelot  would  pursue  their 


FONDIE  475 

friendship  undisturbed,  lost  in  their  own  society  and  interests,, 
while  she  .  .  . 

At  heart  she  knew  it  was  unfair  to  Fondie,  this  bitterness, 
howsoever  faint,  that  filled  her ;  but  it  was  true  to  her  sex  that 
composes  so  many  of  its  judgments  by  the  willful  elimination 
of  the  factors  capable  of  altering  them ;  preferring  the  freedom 
of  perversity  to  the  slavery  of  logic.  Her  bitterness  to  Fondie 
was  but  a  means  to  shift  a  portion  of  her  burden  to  his  shoulders, 
and  make  him  bear  at  least  some  part  of  her  own  blame;  in 
which  respect  the  wheelwright's  son  would  have  been  the  last  to 
wish  it  otherwise.  But  Oh,  if  his  sorrow  now  could  but  have 
known  how  utterly  her  happiness  and  safety  hung  on  him — 
by  how  tragically  little  he  had  lost  her! 

For,  in  the  measurement  of  fate,  it  was  no  more  than  a  hair's- 
breadth.  She  stood  at  the  aud  hoose  corner,  in  the  shelter  of 
the  hedgerow,  when  he  took  his  leave.  Had  he  but  come  alone, 
or  earlier,  who  knows  the  course  Blanche  Bellwood's  life  and 
his  might  then  have  taken?  But  the  young  gentleman  came 
with  him,  and  already  she  had  waited  many  minutes  at  the  aud 
hoose  corner.  She  heard  their  voices,  fragments  even  of  the 
things  they  said;  and  to  her  mind  their  talking  seemed  un- 
troubled and  interminable.  Their  comfortable  intercourse  was 
disturbed  by  no  remembrance  of  her.  Their  friendship,  so  close 
and  confidential,  brought  back  old  memories  of  bitterness  like 
the  glimpse  of  some  firelit,  cheerful,  radiant  room  from  which 
she  was,  and  must  remain,  an  outcast.  And  then — the  young 
gentleman  laughed.  That  laugh  went  to  her  soul.  It  epitomized 
their  happiness  and  crystallized  her  own  misery.  What  was  she 
to  them?  They  did  not  want  her.  The  circle  of  their  friend- 
ship was  complete;  there  was  no  place  in  it  for  such  as  she. 
Let  her  go.  She  had  heard  enough.  She  had  learned  her  last, 
most  bitter  lesson.  She  would  wait  no  longer  here.  And  with 
her  hands  pressed  to  her  temples  she  turned  away  walking  im- 
petuously through  the  lane  that,  not  two  minutes  later,  Fondie 
trod  in  melancholy  quest  of  her. 
31 


476  F  O  N  D  I  E 

She  had  come  prepared.  She  had  come  prepared  for  anything. 
All  day  long  her  thoughts  had  been  intent  upon  this  evening, 
attaching  to  it  a  fateful  and  supreme  significance.  Something 
within  her — that  was  not  decision,  for  it  remained  unexpressed, 
and  yet  was  all  the  more  decision  because  courage  shirked  its 
pronouncement — something  within  her  divined  that  tonight 
was  not  as  other  nights;  that  final  issues  must  be  tried  by  it. 
And  so  she  had  dressed  herself  with  extra  and  acutely  conscious 
care.  All  that  she  stood  in  would  bear  the  test  of  the  friendliest, 
or  the  unfriendliest,  regard.  Eyes,  whether  scornful  or  com- 
passionate, whether  loving  or  indifferent,  should  find  no  fault 
with  what  she  wore.  Two  handkerchiefs  she  carried,  chosen 
of  the  whitest  and  the  best  she  had ;  drenched  with  the  last  drop 
of  bouquet  perfume  from  the  little  fancy  bottle  her  shame  had 
never  dared  to  open  or  to  use  since  the  day  of  her  renunciation 
of  the  world.  And  all  else  that  she  wore  was  of  her  best:  her 
shoes  new  blacked  that  afternoon ;  her  silk  gloves  brought  from 
their  long  and  orderly  seclusion  in  the  lavender-scented,  scrupu- 
lously tidy  drawer  of  the  new  dispensation.  True,  she  had  no 
money  in  her  little  purse.  All  these  weeks  she  had  been  penni- 
less, and  pride  could  not  stoop  to  ask  of  those  whom  shame  had 
so  deeply  injured.  But  save  for  that,  she  was  equipped  for 
anything,  and  anywhere.  And  if  her  journey  should  be  a  far 
one,  why  then  she  was  equipped  for  that  no  less.  .  .  . 

Moving  very  swiftly,  she  walked  straight  home  from  the  aud 
hoose  corner,  but  she  did  not  enter  by  the  gate  that  Fondie 
subsequently  passed  and  that  the  Rector  swung  before  him 
when  he  called.  She  skirted  the  vicarage  by  the  grass  lane 
and  took  the  field  way  to  the  paddock,  and  thence  diagonally 
to  the  pond,  just  as  in  days  gone  by,  when  the  sun  was  shining 
hard  overhead  and  all  the  world  was  blue  and  gold  and  green, 
she  had  swung  blithe-heartedly  with  her  Sacred  Sunday  Budget 
to  seat  herself  beside  its  midge-infested  water  and  read  in  ex- 
pectation of  some  bicycle  bell.  But  now  no  sun  was  shining; 
the  grass  she  walked  over  was  short  and  sodden,  sucking  at  the 


F  O  N  D  I  E  477 

heels  of  her  new-blacked  shoes  as  If  to  stay  them  from  their  pur- 
pose— protesting  this  was  no  place  for  them ;  beneath  the  cloudy, 
starless  sky,  and  darkened  by  the  clustering  trees,  the  water  of 
the  pond  that  February's  snows  and  rains  had  swollen  lay  dead 
and  soulless.  She  stood  upon  Its  lumpy  marge,  upon  one  of  Its 
inconsiderable  hillocks,  where  in  the  days  gone  by  she  had  re- 
clined before  her  crumpled  book,  plucking  the  buttercups  and 
daisies  within  reach  of  her  restless  hand  and  blades  of  grass  to 
bite  at,  and  from  here  she  looked  into  its  liquid  countenance 
and  shivered. 

And  In  that  posture,  gazing  awfully  at  Eternity  through  this 
most  dark  and  miserable  portal,  she  heard  the  rumble  of  the 
Rector's  dogcart,  though  she  lacked  the  capability  of  the  carrier's 
wife  to  divine  its  ownership  and  mission.  Nevertheless,  the 
sound  of  it  drew  her  head  away  from  the  dark  object  of  her 
contemplation,  and  she  turned  her  eye  and  ear  towards  the 
house,  where,  beyond  the  paddock  and  the  garden,  she  could 
descry  the  gleaming  kitchen  window.  Who  was  it?  Who  had 
called  ? 

Her  curiosity,  feminine  to  the  last,  clung  to  the  question,  and 
was  still  engaged  with  it  when  she  heard  her  name  exclaimed 
into  the  darkness  from  the  kitchen  door.  All  her  nature,  relaxed 
in  speculation,  stiffened  rebelliously  at  the  sound.  Her  mouth 
hardened ;  the  tide  of  interrupted  trouble  swept  back  upon  her. 
She  heard  the  name,  first  in  her  father's  voice  and  then  In  her 
brother's.  With  lips  compressed  and  a  palpitating  heart,  she 
listened  to  its  progress  round  the  garden:  "Blanche  .  .  . 
Blanche!"  In  tones  of  urgency  and  anger.  Now  it  was  at  the 
hen-house.  Harold  had  opened  the  door;  he  had  put  his  head 
Inside.  Scorn  took  Its  bitter  toll  of  a  sensibility  so  far  to  seek. 
What?  Did  he  think  she  would  be  there?  Then  he  was 
wrong.  She  was  here;  safe  from  him.  Now  It  was  nearer;  It 
was  at  the  garden  end,  where  the  gate  let  through  Into  the 
paddock.  She  drew  her  breath  and  listened  apprehensively. 
Did  the  voice  suspect  ?  .  .  .  Was  she  so  safe  as  she  had  deemed  ? 


478  F  O  N  D  I  E 

.  .  .  No,  the  voice  suspected  nothing;  the  next  time  she  heard 
it,  it  had  receded.  Her  brother  had  his  back  to  her;  he  was 
returning  to  the  house.  The  thin  gleam  disappeared  all  at  once 
that  had  betokened  the  kitchen  door  ajar.  He  had  gone  in. 
She  was  alone  once  more.    She  was  safe — with  this! 

How  dark  it  looked;  how  sullen  and  forbidding!  Its  waters 
were  as  threatening  as  Harold's  voice  had  been.  Could  there 
be  comfort  there?  Stop.  Let  her  walk  round  these  waters 
first  of  all.  .  .  .  Let  her  go  quite  near  to  them.  Let  her  dip 
her  fingers  in  this  muddy  marge.  Let  her  make  herself  familiar 
with  them,  so  that  out  of  familiarity  contempt  might  come,  and 
she  could  enter  them  without  a  fear. 

All  unknown  to  herself  in  the  extremity  of  her  grief  her  tears 
were  flowing.  They  ran  from  her  as  they  run  from  the  face  of 
a  little  child  weeping  for  sorrow's  sake,  and  yet,  while  weeping 
still,  paying  heed  intently  to  all  the  interests  of  life  around  her. 
For  what  was  she  now  but  a  little  child — a  little  weeping,  piti- 
able child,  led  by  the  hard  and  awful  hand  of  the  dark  figure 
of  Destiny,  that  would  not  let  her  go,  but  cowed  and  ordered 
her,  and  cried,  "Come!" 

So  weeping,  and  so  being  led,  protesting  bitterly,  and  pitifully 
obedient,  she  went  down  implicitly  to  the  water's  edge,  and  the 
last  articulate  cry  her  lips  uttered  before  the  inexorable  figure  of 
Destiny  led  her  by  the  hand  through  the  dark  veil  of  these 
portentous  waters  into  the  presence  of  Almighty  God  was, 
".  .  .  Oh,  Fondie,  Fondie!" 

And  who  knows? 

Who  knows,  Blanche,  save  you  whose  icy  lips  retain  the 
secret  safely  locked  behind  them — who  knows  but  that  Destiny 
led  you  well  and  wisely,  and  that  her  cruel  hand  was  kindest 
after  all  ?  For  now  you  never  can  grow  old ;  age  can  haunt 
3'ou  with  no  terrors.  Respectability  can  never  claim  you  as 
her  rightful  lifelong  prey,  and  write  upon  your  face  the  care- 
w^orn  lines  and  characters  with  which,  too  frequently,  she  sig- 
nalizes her  elect.     Life's  victories  are  more  ruthless  than  the 


FOND  IE  479 

grave's,  and  death's  sting  less  bitter  than  the  tongue's.  For 
tongues  take  toll  forever,  whereas  death  stings  but  once, 
and  the  grave  is  at  least  no  darker  than  your  grief  once  was. 
Dfath?  Upon  your  pillow  you  have  laid  dead  and  dreamless 
many  an  hou'';  by  the  sedgy  margin  of  the  muddy  pond  itself, 
often  on  summer  afternoons  have  you  laid  your  face  upon  your 
arms,  turned  from  the  unbearable  brightness  of  the  sun  and 
sky,  and  tasted  a  few  brief  minutes  of  irresistible,  sweet  death. 
And  of  the  darkness  never  were  you  yet  afraid. 

But  of  this  we  may  be  sure.  God,  if  indeed  He  be  not  a 
gentleman  according  to  the  Mersham  Rector's  standard,  will  at 
least  be  just.  God's  justice  is  greater  than  man's  justice,  and 
God's  wisdom  than  man's  wisdom,  and  God's  love  than  man's 
love,  and  God's  forgiveness — if  divine  justice  have  need  of  such 
a  human  quality — than  the  forgiveness  of  mortal  man.  For 
with  God,  no  less  than  with  His  creatures,  to  understand  is  to 
forgive.  And  since  with  perfect  understanding  there  can  be 
no  anger,  the  finger  of  God's  wrath  will  harm  you  not.  God's 
hand,  be  sure,  is  gentler  than  a  child's;  there  is  no  thunder 
on  God's  lips,  nor  dreadful  lightning  in  His  eyes.  If  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  were  God  you  would  not  fear  him.  Fear  God, 
then,  less,  nor  think  God's  infinite  mercy  will  sufiFer  to  be  put 
to  shame  by  the  finite  compassion  of  a  wheelwright's  son. 


XXXVIII 

AND  all  at  once  it  seemed  as  if  Death  gave  to  Fondie 
Bassiemoor  what  Life  had  so  persistently  denied  him, 
and  Blanche  Bellwood  became,  in  the  most  spiritual, 
perfect,  and  sacred  sense,  his  own.  Every  duty  that  her  price- 
less clay  imposed  devolved  on  him.  He  it  was  whose  hushed 
and  solemn  figure  came  and  went  across  the  threshold  of  the 
stricken  house,  and  acted  intermediary  between  her  father's 
sorrow  and  the  outer  world,  and  did  the  things  necessity,  no 


48o  F  O  N  D  I  E 

less  than  love,  demanded;  he  to  whom  the  Vicar  poured  out 
the  fullness  of  his  affliction,  and  in  whose  sympathy  confided, 
weeping  without  constraint  or  reservation,  and  exclaiming  be- 
tween the  paroxysms  of  his  grief: 

"...  My  dear  friend.  My  dear  friend!  What  should  I 
have  done  without  you?  God  bless  you  for  all  the  kindness 
and  comfort  you  have  given  me.  ..." 

His  own  hands  measured  her,  with  the  calm  fortitude  that 
love  and  resignation  lend  to  duty,  for  her  last  repose.  In  the 
blind-dimmed  room,  upon  her  bed,  he  measured  her,  amid  the 
heart-stifling,  familiar  evidences  of  her  life;  and  looked  in 
reverence  upon  the  dead  white  face  and  the  waxen  lips,  once 
red,  parted  even  in  death  to  show  something  of  the  big  white 
smile  beyond,  and  the  white  closed  lids  over  the  eyes  of  speed- 
well blue.  And  there  her  father  had  come  to  him,  his  solemn 
duty  done,  to  feed  his  grief  afresh  upon  the  sight  of  her  and 
weep  beside  her  pillow,  and  beg  the  wheelwright's  son  in  a 
broken  voice : 

"...  My  dear  friend,  join  me  in  a  prayer,  I  beg  of  you. 
Let  us  kneel  together.  .  .  .  Your  presence  will  lend  me 
strength  and  comfort  .  .  .  and  offer  up  our  hearts  to  Almighty 
God!     O  God,  our  Heavenly  Father  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  And  Fondie  knelt;  and  Fondie  prayed.  For  the  Fon- 
die  that  had  borne  milk  in  a  little  blue  pitcher  through  Whiwle 
to  feed  the  aud  hoose  cat  by  day  and  night  was  not  too  proud 
for  prayer ;  and  of  the  countless  prayers  that  roll  upward  to  the 
Throne  of  Grace  from  stricken  bosoms,  no  ferventer  outpour- 
ing of  simple  sorrowing  souls  ever  reached  God's  ear.  Viewed 
in  its  function  as  a  prayer  alone  the  prayer  had  little  use,  for 
Blanche  was  dead,  with  drops  of  water  in  her  golden  hair  that 
trickled  to  the  pillow  as  they  prayed,  and  a  brow  as  cold  as 
marble,  and  fingers  snowy  white  like  alabaster — finger-tips  that 
they  had  joined  together  on  her  bosom  in  a  simulation  of  per- 
petual and  curiously  unconvincing  prayer,  that  the  faint  elusive 
smile  haunting  her  set  lips  seemed  to  find  amusement  in,  as  if  it 


FONDIE  481 

said,  "Go  on !  Don't  be  a  silly  fool,  Fondie.  I  aren't  praying, 
really.  ..."  Never  all  the  days  of  her  life  had  the  Blanche 
that  Fondie  knew  ever  assumed  an  attitude  of  such  piety  and 
devotional  submission  to  God's  decree. 

But  if  the  prayer  they  uttered  on  their  bended  knee,  and  that 
Blanche's  upturned  hands  subscribed  to,  served  no  purpose — 
what  then?  Loveliness  is  independent  of  utility,  and  things  of 
beauty  need  serve  no  better  purpose  than  their  own.  This 
prayer  was  but  the  blossom  springing  from  hearts  of  love ;  not 
more  significant  than  a  blossom  is,  but  beautiful  with  the  pure 
hues  that  sorrow  lends,  tremulous  with  tears  and  fragrant  with 
affection.  And  when  the  prayer  was  over  and  they  stood  on 
their  feet  again,  with  lint  on  their  knees  that  the  Vicar  had 
too  little  heed  for,  and  Fondie  too  much  reverence  toward  the 
dead,  to  brush  off  in  that  chamber,  and  the  Vicar's  trembling 
fingers  relaid  lingeringly  upon  the  dear  still  face  the  handker- 
chief, removed  for  prayer,  that  covered  it — her  own  white 
handkerchief,  testifying  to  the  late  and  more  punctilious 
Blanche;  the  very  handkerchief,  maybe  (with  scent  upon  it 
then),  that  she  had  waved  at  Mersham — Fondie  Bassiemoor 
dropped  his  voice  to  ask  her  father  ...  if  he  had  given  any 
thought,  sir,  to  ...  to  coffin.  He  said  the  word  "coffin"  in 
a  whisper;  for  "coffin"  is  an  awful  word  (he  knew),  an  awful 
and  inexorable  word,  at  such  moments — a  word  that  must  be 
said,  and  rarely  fails,  when  said,  to  draw  fresh  tears  from 
sorrow's  depleted  resources.  And  the  Vicar,  putting  his  hand 
before  his  eyes,  replied  in  broken  tones:  "He  had  not  thought 
of  it;  he  had  not  thought  of  It. 

"...  Something  simple,"  he  told  the  wheelwright's  son, 
"under  the  awful  circumstances.  .  .  .  Something  very,  very 
simple,  my  dear  friend — such  as  she  would  care  for.  No  osten- 
tation; no  display.  She  would  have  been  the  last  .  .  ." — his 
voice  misgave  him — " ...  the  last  to  wish  it.  Let  it  be  plain." 
"But  good,  sir,"  Fondie  suggested  anxiously ;  for  in  his  heart 
there  was  no  coffin  could  be  made  too  good  for  such  a  precious 


48a  F  O  N  D  I  E 

freight  as  this.  "You'd  have  it  good,  sir,  I  suppose."  Even 
his  modesty  gave  way  before  the  clear  sincerity  of  this  great 
shared  sorrow,  and  he  spoke  to  the  stricken  father  as  perhaps 
under  no  other  circumstances  would  his  humble  lips  have 
spoken.  "...  People  think  a  deal  about  such  things,  sir,  in 
country.  If  we  made  it  overplain,  they  might  read  it  amiss. 
I'd  like,  sir,  for  Miss  Blanche's  sake  and  yours — and  mine  as 
well,  if  I  might  say  so — that  coffin  should  be  worthy  of  her. 
It's  last  thing  and  only  thing  we  can  do  for  her,  sir.  ..." 

And  the  Vicar,  yielding  tearful  submission  to  Fondie's  argu- 
ment and  comforted  by  the  sound  of  Fondie's  voice,  that  paid 
such  heartfelt  tribute  to  his  dear  departed  daughter,  said  he 
placed  himself  in  Fondie's  hands,  and  would  be  led  by  Fondie's 
counsel.  "I  leave  it  to  you,"  he  told  the  wheelwright's  son. 
"I  leave  it  entirely  to  you.  You  will  do  your  best.  You  will 
do  what  is  right.  I  can  trust  you,  my  friend,  as  my  dear  daugh- 
ter did.  She  had  a  high  regard  for  you.  She  would  have 
wished,  at  such  a  time  as  this,  to  be  in  no  more  tried  and 
sympathetic  hands.  .  .  . 

"Do  not  leave  me  too  long.  Come  back  and  see  me  after  a 
little  while.  I  seem  to  need  your  comfort,  my  dear  friend,  in 
this  dark  hour." 

And  Fondle  drove  to  Hunmouth  for  the  oak  that  was  to  form 
her  coffin;  and  set  to  work  upon  its  making,  in  the  workshop 
at  the  end  of  the  wheelwright's  yard,  on  the  bench  where 
Blanche  had  sat  and  cheered  him  with  her  company  at  his  labor. 
He  closed  the  paint-smeared  double  workshop  doors  to  the  outer 
world,  that  his  work  might  pass  uninterrupted,  and  no  intrusive 
presence  should  break  the  sacredness  of  his  dedication  to  It, 
and  no  too  curious  eye  should  stare  Irreverently  at  the  hallowed 
thing  he  wrought  or  talkful  tongue  distract  the  thought  he 
wished  to  fix  upon  it.  For  Blanche  seemed  with  him  all  the 
while ;  no  squire's  son  or  any  other  could  rob  him  of  her  now. 
Death  had  brought  him  Into  close  and  wonderful  communion 
with  her.     If  any  summons  came  that  would  not  be  denied  by 


FOND  IE  483 

silence,  he  left  the  workshop  by  the  far  and  rarely  opened  door 
letting  out  upon  the  vegetable  garden,  and,  making  the  circuit 
of  the  gable  end,  approached  in  silent  and  startling  attendance 
on  his  summoners  from  behind.  But  before  the  softly 
knuckled  summons  and  subdued  voice  of  Mr.  Lancelot  the 
double  doors  at  once  dissolved;  for  the  young  gentleman  was 
of  the  inner  and  elect — a  denizen  of  that  transcendent  world  of 
simple  and  exalted  hearts  where  Fondie  Bassiemoor  abode,  and 
whither  by  her  death  Blanche  Bellwood  was  translated  to  live, 
apotheosed  and  glorified,  henceforth  forever.  Fate,  in  that 
mysterious  and  incomprehensible  way  Fate  has,  had  made  of 
these  discrepant  personalities  a  trinity,  inseverably  bound  by 
many  curious,  strong,  and  tender  ties.  They  shared  a  spirit 
heaven  of  their  own,  that  none  beside  could  estimate  or  under- 
stand. The  solid  world  they  trod  and  touched  and  saw  around 
them  merged  into  an  insubstantial  visionary  world,  where  all 
material  things  dissolved  into  the  subtle  essence  of  themselves, 
by  which  their  earthly  counterparts  were  spiritually  interpreted 
and  their  beatific  soulfulness  revealed.  Thus  this  coffin  that 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  created  with  such  reverent  fingers  assumed 
a  host-like  sacredness,  filling  all  the  workshop  with  solemnity 
and  splendor.  God  seemed  with  them  therein,  no  less  than 
Blanche,  the  Vicar's  daughter;  and  not  a  shaving  strewn  upon 
the  floor  nor  a  tool  upon  the  bench  nor  anything,  however 
labor-like  and  lowly,  but  took  on  the  radiance  of  its  solemn 
dedication,  and  shone  with  a  new  and  hallowed  effulgence.' 
The  day,  without,  was  one  of  those  March  days  of  quick-chas- 
ing cloud  and  sunlight;  one  of  those  days  when  all  the  world 
seems  each  alternate  moment  filled  with  the  tumultuous  effort 
to  burst  forthwith,  full-budded,  into  spring.  Now  the  work- 
shop would  darken  and  the  shadow  of  the  presence  of  death 
would  seem  to  permeate  and  possess  it,  and  for  awhile  the  light 
falling  upon  the  bench  through  the  tiles  of  translucent  glass 
would  grow  metallic  hard,  and  turn  from  that  to  an  ashen 
mortuary  gray ;  and  sorrow  would  have  her  home  there.     And 


484  F  O  N  D  I  E 

then,  on  a  sudden,  the  sun  would  burst  out  without  an  instant's 
warning,  and  the  workshop  would  leap  into  rapturous  glory, 
as  though  God  Himself  had  entered,  and  all  the  workshop  rose 
to  laud  and  greet  Him. 

And  there  in  the  place  filled  sometimes  with  the  splendor, 
and  always  with  the  presence,  of  God,  Fondie  Bassiemoor 
worked  at  the  sacred  casket  that  was  to  contain  the  perishable 
part  of  her  whom  he  had  loved  dearer  than  any  other  on  earth ; 
and  the  young  gentleman  stood  gravely  by,  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  the  smallest  privilege  of  helping  him;  and  Blanche's 
coffin  expressed  the  love  and  labor  of  them  both.  Little  did 
either  know,  and  less  suspect,  that  their  very  friendship  had 
contributed  to  what  they  worked  at;  and  when  the  young 
gentleman  begged,  "Let  me,  Fondie  .  .  ."  anxious  to  partici- 
pate in  this  solemn  ritual  of  friendship,  and  Fondie  let  him, 
he  little  could  have  credited  his  laughter  had  been  for  Blanche 
Bellwood  the  fatal  turning-point,  and  for  his  friend  the  for- 
feiture of  every  hope.  But  that  was  past  and  gone,  and  God 
had  evidently  willed  It  so.  And  Blanche  would  bear  no  malice 
now.  Blanche  would  never  think  of  that.  With  Blanche 
everything  was  forgiven,  freely  and  fully.  On  her  bed  no 
thoughts  or  memories  of  bitterness  came  to  disturb  the  lips,  or 
make  hard  and  resolute  the  mouth,  or  break  the  fixed  and 
infinite  serenity  of  the  marble  countenance  beneath  the  hand- 
kerchief which  every  now  and  then  her  father's  trembling 
fingers  raised  that  he  might  take  a  look  of  sorrowing  love 
upon  the  features  of  his  dear,  misguided,  but  incomparable 
daughter. 

And  as  they  worked  they  talked  in  lowered  tones  of  her,  and 
of  her  life  and  the  tragic  ending  to  it.  To  the  young  gentle- 
man she  showed  in  memory  as  the  fine-limbed,  free-swinging 
Blanche  of  old,  with  the  big  smile  that  had  once  abashed  him, 
and  the  blue  eyes  that  made  his  own  eyes  blink,  as  the  blue 
sky  stared  at  might  have  done.  To  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  shaken 
still  beneath  her  tragedy  and  his,  she  showed,  too  frequently, 


F  O  N  D  I  E  48s 

a  form  cut  out  of  rigid  alabaster ;  or,  more  terrible  to  think  of, 
a  limp  and  lifeless  figure  by  the  margin  of  the  pond — conform- 
ing in  her  inertness  to  every  inequality  of  the  sodden  grass  on 
which  she  lay;  with  water  running  from  her  clothes  and  hair 
back  to  its  fresh  disturbed  and  circling  source,  and  dreadful 
mud  upon  her  gloved  hands,  and  clay  upon  her  brow.  It 
haunted  his  heart  with  the  force  of  a  reproach  that  it  had  not 
been  he  who  found  her;  that  he  had  taken  every  road  but  that 
which  led  to  her,  as  though  fate  were  resolved  his  services  to 
seek  and  find  her  should  be  vain.  And  he  blamed  himself  (so 
he  confided  to  his  friend)  because  the  last  time  they  discussed 
her  whereabouts  at  the  vicarage  upon  that  fatal  morning  the 
thought  had  come  to  him.  Like  a  knife  it  had  stabbed  him. 
But  he  plucked  it  out  again,  sir,  saying,  "No.  She  would 
never  choose  the  pond.  She  would  never  go  of  her  own  free 
will  there."  And  he  had  ridden  off  to  Mersham  instead,  and 
searched  all  round  the  lake,  peering  intently  into  its  deeper, 
clearer  waters.  They  were  so  deep  and  clear  and  calm,  sir, 
and  looked  him  in  the  face  so  innocent  and  open,  that  he  felt 
he  had  misjudged  both  them  and  her;  and  he  rode  back  with 
new  confidence  to  Whiwel,  thinking  that  this  time,  for  certain, 
they  would  have  news  of  her  .  .  .  only  to  learn  .  .  . 

The  young  gentleman  had  never  seen  Death — save  In  pic- 
tures that  had  never  thoroughly  convinced  him.  To  think 
of  Blanche — the  very  emblem  and  embodiment  of  life — as  dead 
presented  a  baffling  problem  to  his  imagination.  He  could  not 
visualize  her  now  in  death ;  he  could  never  think  of  her  as  still 
or  laughterless  or  gravely  silent.  How  did  she  look?  Ho 
asked  the  question  with  bated  inquiry.  Did  she  look  very 
terrible? 

"Not  terrible,  sir,"  Fondie  Bassiemoor  imparted.  At  first  he 
had  fancied  (maybe  it  was  no  more  than  his  own  trouble 
fancying  it)  that  there  was  a  look  of  pained  surprise  upon  her 
face,  as  if  death  had  come  upon  her  too  suddenly.  But  since 
then  she  seemed  to  have  changed  a  deal,  sir.     She  looked,  you 


486  FONDIE 

might  say,  very  natural  and  peaceful — more  peaceful,  perhaps, 
than  the  young  gentleman  or  Fondie's  self,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  had  ever  known  her.  Anybody  would  easily  believe  she 
was  asleep,  sir;  or,  maybe,  not  so  much  asleep  as  thinking  to 
herself.  It  made  him  wonder  what  she  could  be  thinking,  sir; 
but  they  were  happy  thoughts  enough,  by  looks  of  them.  She 
seemed  very  contented  where  she  was.  Once  or  twice,  in  look- 
ing at  her  on  a  sudden,  he  had  almost  fancied  he  saw  her  smile. 
"But,  of  course  .  .  .  she  hadn't,"  the  young  gentleman  said. 
"She  couldn't  have." 

"Why  no,  she  hadn't,  sir,"  Fondie  acquiesced.  "It  doesn't 
stand  to  reason.  It  was  only  me."  He  subscribed  a  sigh  to 
the  requirements  of  reason  and  good  sense,  as  if  he  parted  half 
reluctantly  with  some  cherished  and  consolatory  illusion;  as  if 
it  comforted  him  to  think  that  still  behind  Blanche  Bellwood's 
pallid  brow  was  a  dreamer's  mind,  and  that  a  smile — though 
fainter  than  the  smiles  that  life  had  known  there — still  played 
upon  the  threshold  of  their  birthplace  home,  her  lips. 

"Did  she  do  it  .  .  .  on  purpose,  Fondie?"  It  was  a  question 
they  had  skirted  up  to  now,  though  it  had  been  imminent  in  the 
young  gentleman's  eyes  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

"We  can't  tell  what  she  did,  sir,"  Fondie  answered  humbly, 
after  a  pause,  as  though  testifying  with  sorrow  to  the  imper- 
fectness  of  all  human  knowledge. 

"...  What  do  you  think?" 

".  .  .1  should  be  sorry  to  think  anything,  sir,"  he  insisted 
quietly,  "...  just  now.  I  might  think  one  way,  and  do  her 
an  injustice;  or  I  might  think  another,  and  do  it  myself.  I'd 
rather  not  think  any  road,  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,  till  later,  and 
if  you  won't  think  I'm  trying  not  to  answer  you.  I  don't  even 
w^ant  to  answer  it  myself,  sir.     Not  5'et." 

The  young  gentleman,  moved  to  regret  his  query  by  this 
revelation  of  the  sorrowing  depths  of  Fondie's  heart,  said 
suddenly:  "I  see.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  Fondie.     Of  course." 

For  the  law  of  the  land  had  laid  its  hand  upon  the  vicarage 


F  O  N  D  I  E  487 

this  morning.  It  had  not  been  a  heavy  hand.  It  had  been, 
for  the  law,  a  very  light  and  lenient  hand — but  it  had  enforced 
the  cruel  ritual  that,  above  all  else,  the  Vicar  dreaded,  and  had 
drawn  more  women,  shawled  and  aproned,  with  infants  at  their 
skirts  and  bosoms,  to  gaze  upon  the  house  where,  in  this  tragic 
hour,  sorrow  superseded  shame. 

The  hand  rested  more  lightly  on  the  Vicar's  home  than  did 
their  eyes;  but  it  was  the  Law,  and  left  a  stigma  and  a  stain; 
and  these  were  only  women;  and  to  the  stricken  father  this 
legal  violation  of  the  sanctity  of  sorrow  seemed  like  dishonor 
to  the  dead.  The  coroner  from  Hunmouth  drove  over  in  his 
mud-splashed  gig;  and  twelve  of  Whiwle's  elders — including 
Joe  Bassiemoor  and  the  Psalmist,  and  Bless  Allcot  and  Dod's 
father — passed  through  the  portal  of  the  darkened  vicarage  in 
solemn  file  and  mounted  the  staircase  to  the  chamber  where 
Blanche  lay,  that  the  Law  might  look  upon  her  through  its 
dozen  pairs  of  sworn  juridic  eyes,  and  be  assured  that  this 
upon  the  bed  was  she,  the  Vicar*s  daughter. 

But  their  stay  was  brief.  No  sooner  had  the  vicarage  door 
closed  upon  the  hindmost  figure,  going  in,  than  it  reopened  to 
let  forth  the  foremost.  And  the  judgment  of  the  law  was 
merciful.  Consideration  for  the  feelings  of  this  man  of  God, 
and  possibly  (to  a  greater  degree)  some  deference  to  the  dig- 
nity of  Mersham,  conspired  to  make  the  verdict  as  light  as 
any  verdict  upon  one  dear  to  us  can  ever  be.  She  had  never 
threatened  to  take  her  life,  or  do  an  act  of  such  misguided 
rashness.  There  seemed  no  apparent  motive.  She  was  to 
have  been  married.  There  was  no  evidence  to  indicate  deliber- 
ate intention.  The  testimony  of  the  wheelwright's  son  had 
shown  that  the  deceased  had  taken  walks  by  night  of  late. 
On  such  a  walk,  in  such  a  spot,  she  might  have  misjudged  the 
proximity  of  the  pond  and  stumbled  into  it,  with  fatal  conse- 
quences. The  coroner  did  not  know  whether  the  jury  would 
feel  disposed  to  recommend  that  the  pond  should  be  more 
securely  fenced  off  against  the  possibility  of  any  such  occur- 


488  F  O  N  D  I  E 

rence  in  future.  No;  the  jury  (some  of  whom  had  very 
similar  ponds  in  their  own  fields)  looked  vaguely  at  one 
another  and  shook  their  heads,  and  said  they  didn't  know 
that  it  was  like  to  do  a  deal  of  good.  They  brought  in  a  ver- 
dict of  "Found  drowned,"  coupled  with  a  vote  of  condolence  to 
the  Vicar  and  his  family;  and  the  twelve  men  dissolved  into 
individuals  once  more,  to  discuss  events  wnth  free  and  uncon- 
strained and  personal  voices,  and  give  opinions  they  never 
would  have  ventured  to  express  before  the  Law;  and  the 
coroner  drove  home  again;  and  the  Merensea  doctor  returned 
to  his  patients,  and  Fondie  to  his  solemn  work  of  love;  and 
the  Vicar  sat  forlornly  before  the  decrepit  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room,  saying  over  and  over  to  himself  the  words  of  the  verdict: 
**Found  drowned.  .  .  .  Found  drowned !  .  .  .  My  own  daughter. 
My  own  Blanche!  .  .  .  Found  drowned!" — words  as  cold  and 
comfortless,  as  dead  of  human  sympathy,  as  unresponsive  and 
lifeless,  as  was  her  own  body  on  its  bed  upstairs. 


XXXIX 

AND  Blanche  was  laid  to  rest  at  last  in  her  mother's 
grave,  that  under  Fondie  Bassiemoor's  most  thoughtful 
care  had  been  got  ready  for  her,  draped  with  ivy  and 
green  leaves  to  mitigate  its  ruthlessness  and  lend  to  the  yawn- 
ing mouth  a  kind  and  even  loving  look:  she  was  laid  to  rest  in 
the  coffin  of  paneled  and  unpolished  oak  that  Fondie  Bassie- 
moor,  with  the  young  gentleman's  kindly  aid,  had  made  for 
her — ^whose  very  grain  was  permeated  with  loving  memory 
and  discourse  of  her.  No  such  handiwork  of  human  love, 
uncontaminated  by  thought  of  gain  or  mercenary  end,  was  ever 
lowered  into  churchyard  soil  and  hidden  from  the  sight  of  men. 
Murmurs  of  admiration  rose  audibly  from  many  a  lip  when  it 
passed  by,  that  made  the  lip  of  its  creator  tremble ;  and  though, 
here  and  there,  were  those  who — slavebound  to  convention — 


FONDIE  489 

missed  the  formal  polish  of  bereavement  and  regretted  that 
its  paneled  surface  did  not  shine  more  and  reflect  a  finer  luster, 
these  were  but  few  compared  with  those  who  praised  the  work 
and  said  no  handsomer  had  yet  been  seen.  And  all  Whivvle 
went  that  afternoon  to  see.  If  Blanche  could  but  have 
glimpsed  these  obsequies  of  hers  she  would  have  laughed  to 
note  their  solemn  incongruity.  No  argument  of  propriety  can 
convince  otherwise;  for  death  changes  nothing  essential;  it 
only  makes  an  end.  What  was,  still  was;  and  only  because 
it  is  not  does  it  cease  to  be.  Blanche,  wrapped  reverently  in 
her  coffin,  and  followed  by  twitching  lips  and  bowed  heads,  was 
still — save  for  the  breakage  of  this  vital  thread — ^the  Blanche 
of  life  and  laughter. 

Death  restored  to  her,  and  more,  all  that  life  had  taken  from 
her.  If  any  justification  for  that  last  rash  act  were  needed, 
here  by  her  graveside  was  it  to  be  found.  All  the  scorn  and 
hard  things  said  of  her,  death  had  expunged  with  tears.  Those 
whose  lips  had  most  offended  now  strove  most  anxiously  to 
exculpate  themselves.  "It  wasn't  me,  missus!"  "Nor  me." 
"Nor  me!"  "Some  folk  will  be  sorry  for  what  theyVe  said, 
now.  They  will  an*  all !"  "She's  had  a  lot  to  put  up  with." 
"My  word,  you  may  depend!"  "I  shouldn't  care  to  be  him!" 
"Whiwle  won't  seem  same  place  noo  Blanche  has  gone." 
"Why,  it  hasn't  done  of  a  long  while,  missus.  It's  seemed  that 
dull  and  quiet."  "She'll  be  missed.  My  word,  she  will  be 
missed!"  They  drew  upon  bygone  memory  in  this  hour  of 
trouble,  as  one  draws  upon  a  purse  of  hoarded  gold  in  the 
solemn  day  of  need.  They  recalled  this,  they  spoke  of  that. 
To  one  she  had  said,  "It's  sickening!"  Another  remembered 
well  her  asking,  "Which  way's  father  gone?"  A  third  tear- 
fully deposed  to  having  heard  her  say,  "I  don't  care.  I  aren't 
frightened."  Over  these  treasured  sayings  of  her  lips  they 
shook  their  heads  with  the  reverence  for  sacred  relics.  Nothing 
pertaining  to  her  now  was  too  trifling  to  preserve.  Now  that 
Death  had  claimed  and  taken  her  it  seemed  as  if  recollection, 


490  F  O  N  D  I  E 

resisting  the  cruel  seizure,  strove  its  uttermost  to  keep  her  sake 
alive.  For  with  Blanche  Bellw^ood  something  of  Whivvle's 
very  self  was  gone — something  as  essential  to  its  wholeness  as 
the  blue  sky  or  the  beaming  sun,  or  the  green  hedgerows  or 
the  golden  corn.  She  had  formed  a  part  of  its  life  and  thought 
and  custom;  her  laughter  had  lightened  the  dullness  of  its  days; 
her  presence,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine,  had  served  to  kindle  life 
and  make  it  more  endurable.  Now  with  her  loss  the  Whivvle 
that  had  been  would  be  no  more.  Not  only  people  die,  but 
places  too,  and  epochs  pass  away;  and  the  Whiwle  she  had 
lightened  and  been  part  of  died  with  her. 

They  laid  her  on  no  hearse,  but  bore  her  all  the  way  by 
hand  from  the  vicarage  to  the  church,  with  napkins  through  the 
brazen  handles  of  the  coffin,  after  a  simple  but  expiring  country 
custom.  And  at  the  church  gate  her  own  father  met  her 
with  the  tears  flowing  down  his  cheeks,  and  greeted  his  dead 
daughter's  body:  "*...!  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life'  ..." 

He  had  said — at  first  he  had  said — to  Fondie:  "My  friend, 
...  I  cannot.  My  burden  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  .  .  .  Some 
other  must  perform  this  melancholy  duty;  not  her  father." 
But  when  he  came  to  think  on  whom  the  duty  would  devolve, 
there  seemed  no  colleague  within  call  to  whose  mercies  his 
fatherhood  could  confide  her.  All,  in  this  hour  of  prodigious 
sorrow,  assumed  to  his  desolate  heart  the  aspect  of  u<tter 
strangers.  There  seemed  not  one  by  spiritual  right  or  human 
sympathy  qualified  to  take  his  place  and  supersede  him  in  this 
office  to  his  dear  beloved  daughter.  He  said:  "My  friend 
...  I  must  endeavor,  if  God  will  lend  me  strength.  It  is 
my  place  and  duty."  And  first,  as  wc  have  seen  already,  he 
said  the  funeral  should  be  simple.  The  circumstances,  not 
less  than  good  feeling  and  his  daughter's  wishes,  called  for  it. 
But  when  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  in  all  humility,  proposed  a  hymn, 
he  melted  into  tears  of  appreciative  gratitude  for  the  beauty 
of  the  thought.     It  was  a  beautiful  thought ;  it  was  a  beautiful 


FOND  IE  491 

thought.  If  only  his  dear  daughter  .  .  .  could  have  spoken, 
he  knew  it  would  have  met  with  her  approval.  She  would 
have  wished  it  most  devoutly.  Nothing  would  have  been 
nearer  to  her  heart.  And  he  selected  two  hymns  with  Fondie 
Bassiemoor,  of  which  "Conquering  Kings"  was  one,  because 
that  had  always  been  her  favorite  hymn.  She  had  loved  that 
hymn.  And  Fondie,  stirred  by  sorrow  to  equal  depths  of  pious 
unveracity,  said,  **It  was  one  she  had  a  fondness  for,  I  know, 
sir."  And  so,  because  Blanche  loved  that  hymn  and  always 
spoke  of  it  as  "Kinkering  Kongs"  in  conversation  and  qualified 
it  as  "sickening,"  which  was  her  term  for  all  the  best-beloved 
things,  and  it  was  her  favorite  hymn,  they  chose  it,  and  the 
Vicar  was  moved  to  tender  confidence  in  his  approbation  of  the 
choice,  telling  Fondie  Bassiemoor  that  his  daughter,  beneath 
an  apparently  external  carelessness,  concealed  a  devout  and 
Christian  nature,  and  people  without  his  own  peculiar  oppor- 
tunities of  knowing  her  and  judging  her  might  be  deceived  into 
thinking  her  other  and  less  serious  than  she  was.  To  which 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  responded,  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  heart, 
"There's  nobody  knows  that  better  than  me,  sir." 

"She  was  a  dear,  good,  faithful  daughter,"  her  father  testi- 
fied; "a  true,  true  Christian,  my  dear  friend.  No  truer 
Christian  or  better,  more  devoted  daughter  ever  lived.  God 
knows  how  I  shall  fare  without  her.     The  house  feels  lost." 

"I  know  how  youW  miss  her,  sir,"  the  wheelwright's  son 
affirmed,  "by  what  I  miss  her  myself." 

"You  miss  her?"  the  Vicar  inquired  with  a  face  of  agonized 
paternal  rapture.  "My  dear,  dear  friend!  Thank  you.  .  .  . 
Thank  you.  God  bless  you  for  missing  her,  and  all  your 
kindness." 

"Everybody  misses  her,  sir.  There's  nobody  could  be  missed 
more."  Politeness,  even  in  sorrow,  would  have  liked  to  add, 
"except  yourself,  sir,"  out  of  consideration  for  the  Vicar's 
feelings;  but  loyalty  to  the  dead  and  the  fundamental  force  of 
his  conviction  forbade  it. 


492  F  O  N  D  I  E 

"They  do?  They  do?"  Her  father  sought  refuge  from 
the  insufferable  goodness  of  human  hearts  in  his  own  tears 
again.  "You  are  too  kind.  Everybody  is  too  kind.  I  do  not 
deserve  such  kindness.  I  cannot  bear  it.  But  it  is  for  her 
sake,  I  know.     I  owe  it  to  her.     She  was  beloved  of  all." 

And  they  sang  the  hymns  no  better  for  all  the  sorrow  that 
afflicted  and  deterred  them,  in  the  church  where  she  had  sat 
and  sucked  peppermints  and  scribbled  billets  in  the  sight  of 
God,  with  whom  forevermore  she  was.  Tears  fell  upon  Fon- 
die's  fingers  as  he  played,  and  rendered  the  keys  treacherously 
wet  and  slippery;  and  if  he  had  not  known  the  hymns  by 
heart,  and  the  number  of  their  verses,  he  never  could  have 
played  them  even  as  imperfectly  as  he  did.  But  he  was  not  the 
only  one  that  w^pt;  the  church  was  filled  with  weepers. 
Blanche's  brothers  did  not  weep,  for  all  they  sat  with  their 
heads  in  their  coat  collars  up  to  the  ears ;  but  as  for  the  Vicar,  he 
only  read  one  half  of  the  appointed  chapter  of  St.  Paul's  Epistle 
to  the  Corinthians  and  wept  the  other,  beseeching  the  congre- 
gation, "Bear  with  me,  dear  friends!"  whilst  he  wiped  the 
teardrops  from  his  spectacles  and  blurred  eyes. 

And  in  the  churchyard,  where  her  mother  was,  while  the 
■church  daws  wheeled  noisily  about  the  tower,  and  the  birds, 
obsessed  with  the  hastening  spirit  of  spring,  chose  building  sites 
in  hedge  and  yew  and  holly  and  gathered  straw  and  blades  of 
withered  grass  and  feathers  from  amongst  the  tombs,  and  broke 
out  into  riotous  song  above  the  Vicar's  faltering  words  as  if 
their  joy  could  be  contained  no  longer — there  they  laid  Blanche 
Bellwood  to  her  rest  at  last,  to  keep  her  supreme  appointment, 
this  time  with  God ;  wrapped  in  the  yellow  sister  clay  of  which 
herself  had  been  in  life  so  fair  and  loved  a  creature. 


FONDIE  493 


XL 


SPRING  was  two  days  nearer  and  more  than  two  days 
warmer  when  Fondle  Bassiemoor,  paying  his  daily  visit 
to  the  churchyard — that  was  become  with  him  a  duty 
not  less  conscientious  than  his  ministration  of  the  aud  hoose 
had  been — stood  in  the  afternoon  by  Blanche's  grave.  Already 
the  flowers  heaped  upon  it,  the  white  trumpet-lilies  of  purity 
and  splendid  faith,  and  the  humble  daffodils  and  fragrant 
violets,  were  fading  fast  upon  the  mound  that  marked  amid 
the  trampling  of  the  sward  where  Blanche,  the  dearly  beloved, 
slept.  He  stood  for  awhile  before  her  sacred  resting-place 
with  doffed  cap,  thinking,  or  perhaps  praying;  in  practice  they 
are  much  the  same.  To  think  of  anyone  with  kindness  is  a 
prayer.  We  never  recall  with  gratitude  an  act  of  kindness, 
a  kind  look  or  a  kind  word,  but  in  some  sort  we  pray.  If 
that  be  so,  then  Fondie  prayed,  and  was  still  lost  in  silent 
prayer  when  Mr.  Lancelot  joined  him.  That  is,  he  did  not 
join  him  first  of  all,  noting  the  doffed  cap  and  the  attitude 
of  solemn  meditation,  but  held  apart  awhile,  reluctant  to 
trespass  on  the  privacy  of  Fondie's  thought ;  and  it  was  Fondie 
who,  conscious  of  his  presence,  turned  and  with  a  pleasant 
gravity  said,  "Now,  sir." 

There  was  a  smile  upon  his  face ;  the  quiet  smile  that  sorrow 
wears  when  it  is  reconciled  at  last  to  all  the  bitterness  that  gave 
it  birth,  and  grows  assured  and  wonderful  mild.  It  was  the 
first  time  the  young  gentleman  of  the  aud  hoose  had  paid  a  visit 
to  Blanche's  grave,  nor  was  he  there  to  see  her  laid  in  it.  But 
Fondie  knew  the  cause  of  that,  and  said  he  understood  and 
sympathized;  "And  so  would  she,  sir!"  But  the  old  gentleman 
was  getting  on  in  years,  and  it  behooved  Mr.  Lancelot  to  obey 
him  all  he  could  now,  sir,  while  he  had  chance  of  it.  Duty 
came  before  aU  else,  and  whatever  folk  lost  by  doing  that,  sir, 
they  didn't  lose  a  deal. 


494  F  O  N  D  I  E 

The  young  gentleman,  drawn  forward  by  Fondie's  kindly 
"Now,  ^ir!"  came  near  to  his  friend's  elbow,  expressing  sorrow 
for  disturbing  him. 

"You're  not  disturbing  me,  sir,"  Fondle  answered.  "I  was 
just  looking  at  grave,  that's  all.     I'm  glad  enough  to  see  you." 

"Anne  told  me  she  thought  that  you  were  here,"  his  visitor 
explained.  "I've  been  round.  ..."  His  eye  fell  upon  the 
mound  of  yellow  clay  that  the  sun  and  wind  had  dried,  and 
upon  the  forlorn  array  of  faded  flowers  that  the  sun  and  wind 
had  cut  and  slain;  and  the  look  in  his  gaze  deepened. 

".  .  .  So  she's  there !"  he  said  In  a  voice  of  curious  reflection, 
after  he  had  scrutinized  her  resting-place  awhile. 

"Yes,  she's  there,  sir,"  Fondle  acquiesced,  with  a  simplicity 
that  was  almost  cheerful.  "It's  a  pleasant  spot  to  lie  in, 
and  it'll  be  pleasanter  after  awhile,  when  spring  comes.  Birds 
are  building  hard.     I  noticed  them  when  we  buried  her." 

"Is  she  very  deep  down?'* 

"About  six  feet,  sir." 

"Six  feet!"  The  young  gentleman's  eye  calculated  the 
depth,  and  he  seemed  to  shiver.     "How  awful." 

"Why,  not  so  awful,  sir,"  his  friend  dissented  in  his  curiously 
complaisant  voice.  "To  us,  maybe;  but  not  to  her.  Things 
that  are  over  and  done  with  aren't  awful  to  anybody;  It's  only 
things  In  front  of  us  that  we've  got  to  go  through.  Besides 
...  her  mother's  there  as  well,  sir.  Her  mother  comes  first. 
It  can't  be  very  dreadful  to  He  along  with  somebody  that  loved 
you  .  .  .  with  them  above  that  loved  you  looking  down  upon 
you,  sir,  and  thinking  of  you." 

The  young  gentleman  subscribed  a  hesitating  "No,"  as  if  his 
prejudices  were  even  yet  not  altogether  converted. 

"Fondle  .  .  . "  he  said  after  awhile,  during  which  they  gazed 
together  at  the  drear  and  flagging  flowers,  ".  .  .do  you  believe 
in  God?" 

"There's  some  that  doesn't,  I  know,  sir,"  Fondle  said,  with- 
out the  least  tonal  reproof  of  their  infidelity. 


FONDIE  495 

"But  you?  Do  youf^  And  as  Fondie*s  lips  still  expressed 
a  pious  reluctance  to  commit  themselves  to  any  final  pronounce- 
ment on  so  vast  and  vexed  a  subject,  his  friend  added  (as 
though  to  reassure  a  lurking  heterodoxy  and  lend  encourage- 
ment to  truth)  :  *'He  doesn't,  I  know.  He's  said  so.  He's  said 
it  will  be  time  enough  to  believe  in  God  when  we  are  at 
Mersham.  That's  why  we  never  go  to  church,  of  course.  He 
says  if  we  can't  go  to  church  in  the  right  and  proper  way,  and 
sit  in  the  right  pew  ...  we  won't  go  at  all.  He  says  God  is 
like  every  other  great  friend  one  makes.  When  one  has  done 
all  the  work  oneself,  and  had  all  the  hardship  and  anxiety,  and 
got  one's  way  in  the  end,  then  God  deigns  to  take  notice  of 
you,  and  tries  to  make  you  believe  He's  helped  you  all  the  time 
and  you  owe  everything  to  Him.  When  we  get  to  Mershaip, 
he  tells  me,  I  shall  find  God  very  useful  to  me  there ;  but  until 
that  time  comes  I  shall  do  well  to  remember  that  I  have  only 
the  two  of  us  to  depend  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world's 
against  us.  Of  course  he  doesn't  include  you.  I  suppose  he 
doesn't  believe  in  God  at  all,  really.  If  there  is  a  God  .  .  . 
why  has  He  kept  Mersham  from  us  all  this  time?  Why  did 
He  let  the  D'Alroys  come  .  .  .  and  Blanche  die?  What, 
Fondie?" 

"Don't  think  I  haven't  thought  the  same,  sir,"  Fondie  an- 
swered, "for  I  have,  many  a  time." 

"Do  you  believe  in  Him,  then?"  his  friend  demanded. 
"Really  and  truly?" 

"I  doubt  I  don't,  sir,"  Fondie  answered  after  a  deep  breath. 
"Not  in  the  way  you  mean.  For  if  I  did,  I  shouldn't  ask 
myself,  nor  yet  Him,  the  things  I  do.  And  yet  to  doubt  Him 
is  to  admit  Him  in  a  manner  of  speech,  sir.  There's  many 
disbelievers  that  serve  Him  better  than  some  that  profess  to 
believe,  without  troubling  to  make  sure  what  it  is  they  do 
believe,  and  would  think  it  sin  to  call  His  name  in  question. 
I  know  it's  difficult  to  be  what  He  is,  sir.  I've  often  thought 
so  when  I  felt  disposed  to  doubt  Him  and  His  works.    I  should 


496  F  O  N  D  I  E 

make  but  a  poor  business  of  It  myself  if  I  had  the  doing  of  it. 
I  doubt  I  should  never  let  anything  happen  anybody,  even  if  it 
ought  to  happen  by  rights.  I  should  spoil  folk,  sir.  I  should 
leave  them  nothing  to  do  for  themselves." 

He  stooped  and  recomposed  with  pious  fingers  the  wind- 
blow^n  flowers  of  a  wreath. 

"I've  sometimes  thought,  sir,"  he  continued,  since  the  young 
gentleman  still  preserved  a  listening  and  attentive  posture, 
".  .  .  I've  sometimes  thought  that  it  wasn't  for  us  to  question 
God  and  prove  Him  by  words,  but  do  our  best  to  show  Him 
in  our  lives — whether  He's  anywhere  else  or  not.  God's  in  us, 
that  is  to  say,  sir;  and  we're  in  Him — though  it's  hard  at  times, 
I'll  admit,  to  know  which  part  of  us  is  which  and  whose  voice 
is,  whose.  But  if  we  say  that  God  begins  where  self  ends,  we 
shan't  be  far  to  seek,  I  think,  sir.  The  things  we  do  for  self, 
they  may  be  good  or  they  may  be  bad;  but  the  things  we  do 
for  anybody  else's  sake,  I  don't  think  God  will  judge  those 
things  amiss,  sir,  whoever  and  wherever  He  may  be — whether 
He  lives  in  heaven,  as  some  believe  He  does,  or  in  our  hearts, 
and  subsists  on  us,  as  you  might  say,  and  on  our  doings.  *For 
It  is  God' — so  St.  Paul  tells  us,  sir — 'which  worketh  in  you 
both  to  li'ill  and  to  do  of  His  good  pleasure.  .  .  .  Let  nothing 
be  done  through  strife  or  vainglory;  but  in  lowliness  of  mind 
let  each  esteem  other  better  than  themselves.  .  .  .  Finally, 
brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true;  whatsoever  things  are 
honest;  whatsoever  things  are  just;  whatsoever  things  are 
lovely;  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report;  If  there  be 
any  virtue,  and  if  there  be  any  praise  .  .  .  think  on  these 
things.' 

"St.  Paul  doesn't  forbid  us  to  think  of  anything,  sir,  so  long 
as  we  think  honest  and  true;  and  thought  hurts  nobody — least 
of  all  God.  God  should  bide  thinking  on,  sir — ^whether  it's 
to  doubt  Him  or  believe  Him.  When  little  childer  say  any- 
thing against  us  we  don't  take  it  very  much  amiss,  remember- 
ing   what    they    are;     and    we're    only    children    ourselves, 


FOND  IE  497 

Sir,  measured  against  Him.  He  doesn't  stand  to  be  out 
of  course  angry  with  any  of  us,  whatever  we  think  or  say  or 
do. 

"...  I  beg  you'll  forgive  me,  sir,"  he  broke  off  with  an 
apologetic  smile.  "You  asked  me  for  an  answer — not  a 
sermon." 

"No,  no.  .  .  .  Go  on,  Fondie!"  the  young  gentleman  be- 
sought him.  "I  like  listening  to  you.  You  make  it  sound  so 
easy  to  be  good.  Whatever  you  say  seems  right."  He  added 
in  a  burst  of  appreciation:  "You  ought  to  have  been  a  clergy- 
man, Fondie.     I've  said  so  lots  of  times." 

"I  doubt  I'm  better  as  I  am,  sir,"  Fondie  modestly  opined. 
"I  doubt  I'm  what  I  was  meant  to  be." 

"But  you  don't  mean  .  .  ."  his  friend  interposed  with  a 
sudden  voice  and  look  of  misgiving,  "you  don't  mean  to  give 
in!  Now!  Because  of  this!"  His  gaze  indicated  the  mound 
and  flowers  at  their  feet. 

"No,  sir,"  Fondie  reassured  him.  "I  don't  mean  to  give 
in.  Even  what  we  are,  and  what  we  were  meant  to  be,  we  can 
still  improve  on.  There's  no  wheelwright  born,  however  good 
he  was,  but  had  scope  to  be  better  if  he'd  tried.  What  I  do 
mean,  sir  .  .  ." — he  looked  about  him  as  if  to  find  in  the  cir- 
cumjacent things  he  saw,  his  meaning's  definition — "I've 
thought  a  deal  about  myself,  and  learned  a  deal  as  well,  sir, 
lately,  and  I've  thought:  Why  should  I  try  and  fit  myself  for 
another  sort  of  life  when  I've  never  made  best  advantage  of 
the  one  I've  got?  A  man  can  only  do  his  duty,  sir,  whatever 
life  he's  born  in  or  struggles  to.  And  there  are  duties  for  me 
here — more  duties  than  I  can  do,  to  do  them  as  they  should 
be  done — without  striving  after  other  duties  that  I  know  very 
little  about,  sir,  and  mightn't  see  so  plain  as  these." 

"What  duties?" 

"Why  .  .  .  there's  my  father,  sir,  for  one,"  Fondie  an- 
swered. "He's  getting  into  years,  sir,  now,  and  can't  do  the 
things  he  could  once  upon  a  time.     He  worked  hard  enough 


498  F  O  N  D  I  E 

for  me  when  I  was  little  and  couldn't  work;  and  it's  for  me 
to  work  my  best  for  him,  now  he's  old  and  can't.  And  then, 
there's  my  mother,  sir." 

".  .  .  But  can't  your  sister  look  after  her?'*  the  young  gen- 
tleman demanded. 

"Why,  she  can,  sir;  and  she  does,"  Fondie  attested.  "But 
my  sister's  a  woman  now,  sir,  and  I  think  she's  getting  restless 
to  be  wed  and  have  a  house  of  her  own.  It's  only  natural.  I 
hope  she  will." 

"And  youll  want  to  be  getting  married  too,"  his  friend 
contended,  "as  well  as  her." 

Fondie's  face  flushed  ever  so  slightly  at  the  suggestion  so 
loyally  made,  but  it  recovered  its  serene  composure  on  an 
instant. 

"...  I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  said  evasively.  "Maybe  not. 
Sometimes  I  think  not  ever,  now." 

The  young  gentleman  had  expostulation  on  his  lips,  but  the 
shape  of  them  dissolved  upon  an  enlightened  and  almost  in- 
audible "Oh!" 

"My  sister's  five  years  older  than  me,  sir — than  I  am.  She 
falls  to  go  first.  Anyhow,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  bide  as  long 
as  she's  done." 

The  young  gentleman  exclaimed:  "You  always  give  way, 
Fondie.  It's  always  you  that  stand  aside  for  other  people. 
You'd  give  way  for  anybody." 

"Somebody's  got  to  give  way,  sir,"  Fondie  reminded  him. 
"You're  not  the  only  one  that  has  said  it,"  he  confessed.  "Lots 
of  folk  have  told  me  same  thing,  and  blame  me  for  it.  I  know 
I  give  way  very  easily,  sir,  but  that's  maybe  the  reason  I 
should.  I  only  do  what  I'm  best  fitted  for.  It  doesn't  cost  me 
as  much  effort  to  give  way  as  it  costs  some  people.  And  both 
sorts  are  needed  to  make  a  world,  sir;  both  them  that  give  and 
them  that  take.  .  .  .  There's  Vicar  too,  sir,  now.  He  seems 
to  depend  on  me  a  deal  since  w^hat's  happened.  I  feel  I  want 
to  stop  and  do  all  I  can  to  help  him — if  it's  only  for  Her  sake." 


FONDIE  499 

Mr.  Lancelot  acknowledged  huskily:  "I  see.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
you're  right." 

"Why  .  .  .  even  if  I'm  not  right,  sir,"  Fondle  comforted 
himself,  "it's  meant  right.  We  can  only  see  a  little  way  in 
front  of  us,  and  that  not  very  clearly  at  times.  But  we  shan't 
do  any  better  for  trying  to  %^e  too  far  ahead,  and  calculating 
about  things  beyond  us.  Very  often,  time  we're  calculating,  sir, 
chance  we  had  has  gone  by.  Chance  has  gone  by !"  He  seemed 
to  be  meditating  over  his  own  words.  "I've  done  many  things 
that  were  wrong  things,  maybe,  when  you  looked  at  them  very 
close  and  studied  them,  but  I  don't  regret  them.  Wrong  and 
right  can't  be  learned  off,  sir,  like  multiplication  table.  For 
instance  ...  we  were  talking  about  duty,  sir.  .  ,  ." 

And  then,  by  Blanche's  grave,  he  confided  to  the  young  gen- 
tleman for  the  first  time  the  faithful  history  of  his  encounters 
with  her,  and  the  momentous  making  of  the  great  proposal. 
"I  meant  letting  you  know  all  the  time,  sir,"  he  explained.  "I 
wanted  you  to.  But  somehow,  I  couldn't  bring  my  lips  to 
speak  of  it  while  now." 

"And  you  really  meant  it?**  his  friend  exclaimed,  incredu- 
lous that  such  a  terrific  project  really  represented  Fondie  Bas- 
siemoor,  the  wheelwright's  son.  "You  would  have  gone  away 
.  .  .  with  her?" 

"I  meant  it,  sir.  Yes.  I  would  have  gone  anywhere  she 
liked  to  name,  sir." 

"And  you  would  have  given  up  everything — everybody? 
Your  father  and  mother  and  sister?  Me?"  He  dwelt  with 
a  certain  accent  of  reproach  fulness  upon  the  pronoun,  but  Fon- 
die Bassiemoor  was  too  deeply  imbued  with  the  sacred  spirit  of 
truth  to  seek  to  justify  the  apparent  disloyalty  of  his  conduct 
by  paltry  exceptions. 

"I  would,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  you  to  know  me  as  I  am, 
and  see  what  anybody  can  be  capable  of,  for  all  their  talk  of 
duty." 

"I  call  it  splendid  of  you,"  the  young  gentleman  declared, 


soo  F  O  N  D  I  E 

out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart.  "I  never  thought  you  had  it 
in  you — never." 

".  .  .  And  look,  sir.  I  meant  to  show  you."  Fondle  drew 
from  his  breast  pocket  with  cautious  reverence  some  object 
carefully  preserved  in  tissue  paper.  "Vicar  asked  me  only  this 
morning  If  there  was  anything  of  hers  I  could  value,  and  cared 
to  name,  to  remember  her  by.  There  were  some  bangles  he 
showed  me,  sir.  Not  that  they  had  much  value,  except  that 
she'd  worn  them.  He  said  they  were  very  precious  to  him  .  .  . 
but  he  could  spare  me  one  if  there  was  nothing  else  I  liked  to 
ask  for  that  he  could  spare  better.  I  ventured  to  ask  for  this, 
sir."  It  was  unwrapped  at  last,  and  held  to  view :  her  prayer- 
book.  Blanche's  prayer-book,  destitute  of  half  the  morning 
service  and  of  innumerable  pages  besides,  and  scribbled  over  by 
many  hands,  contesting  and  confusing  ownership.  But  hers — 
Blanche's  very  own.  The  prayer-book  that  had  lain  neglected 
on  the  ledges  of  the  varying  pews  she  sat  in,  and  had  been  held 
before  her  blue  eyes  and  pressed  against  her  white  teeth,  and 
interposed — who  knows  how  often? — as  a  screen  between  her 
laughter  and  her  father's  eyes.  As  the  young  gentleman  looked 
at  it,  a  page — one  of  a  number  torn  and  loose — fluttered  to  the 
ground.     He  picked  it  up  and  hesitated  in  the  act  of  its  return. 

"May  I?  .  .  .  Can  yon  spare  me  just  this  one.  Fondle? 
There  are  lots  more." 

It  was  a  great  request  to  make,  and  for  a  moment  Fondle 
Bassiemoor's  lips  seemed  as  hesitating  as  the  young  gentleman's 
hand  had  been.  But  when  the  hand,  sensing  Fondle's  reluct- 
ance, proffered  the  leaf  at  once,  "No!  Here,  Fondle.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  asked  you!"  Fondle's  momentar\'  doubt  dis- 
solved. Fondle  gave  way.  Fondle  did  what  Fondle  was 
(maybe)  best  fitted  for.  "No,  no,  sir.  I  didn't  mean  that. 
Keep  it,  if  you've  a  wish.  You're  very  welcome.  I  know 
Blanche  would  have  given  you  as  many  as  you'd  liked  to  ask 
for.  I  know  very  well  it'll  be  in  good  hands,  sir,  that  will 
take  care  of  it  and  treasure  it,  for  her  sake." 


FOND  IE  SOI 

There  came  a  silence  over  them  both,  and  out  of  it  the  altered 
voice  of  Mr.  Lancelot  emerged  to  ask  the  old  and  haunting 
question:  .  .  .  Had  he?  .  .  .  Did  he?  And  the  old  and 
haunting  answer  greeted  it:  Why  no,  sir.  Fondie  hadn't. 
Fondie  didn't. 

''I've  been  inclined  to  blame  myself,  sir,"  Fondie  said.  "It 
might  have  made  a  difference  if  I  had  *a  done.  And  when  she 
was  laid  dead,  sir,  and  I  looked  at  her  upon  her  pillow,  I  felt 
.  .  .  why  I  felt,  sir,  I'd  like  to  place  one  kiss  upon  her  before 
we  put  her  out  of  sight  forever.  I  could  have  done.  I  had 
chance,  sir.  I'd  many  chances.  I  was  the  last  that  looked  at 
her.  And  I  know  she  wouldn't  have  minded  it  .  .  .  from  me, 
sir ;  such  a  kiss  as  I  had  thought  and  wish  to  give  her.  I  know 
Vicar  himself  couldn't  have  minded,  if  I'd  begged  leave  of  him. 
.  .  .  But  it  seemed  like  taking  advantage  of  her  then,  sir, 
when  she  couldn't  help  herself,  and  hadn't  chance  to  say  yes 
or  no.  And  so  I  didn't,  sir,  for  all  I  know  she'd  have  said 
*Yes,  and  welcome.'    All  my  life  I  never  kissed  her,  sir." 

They  looked  together  at  the  grave. 

".  .  .  But  there's  one  thing  I  did,  sir,  that  I'm  glad  of.  I 
laid  a  bunch  of  violets  in  coffin,  beside  her.  I  asked  Vicar  if 
I  might,  and  he  said  .  .  .  why,  he  said  I  might,  sir.  And  I 
did.    They're  down  there  with  her  now." 


XLI 


THERE  seem  the  elements  of  immortality  in  Joe  Bassie- 
moor's  beard.  All  other  members  of  his  person  pay 
toll  to  time  but  this  that  shows  no  change  that  human 
eye  can  see  as  the  weeks  and  months  roll  by.  The  sunlight, 
pouring  out  of  the  soft  and  milky  blueness  of  a  June  sky  and 
filling  the  wheelwright's  yard  with  warmth  and  glory,  five 
years  later,  finds  the  wheelwright  in  it;  and  only  his  legs,  and 
the  two  sticks  with  which  he  reinforces  them,  bear  testimony 


S02  F  O  N  D  I  E 

that  time  moves  more  assuredly  than  they  do,  and  that  despite 
the  seeming  unchangeableness  of  his  beard,  he  is  not  of  the 
essence  of  eternity,  like  this  that  he  competes  with. 

He  sits  in  the  ashwood  chair — where  he  usually  sits  on  sum- 
mer days  outside  the  kitchen  door — ^with  a  cushion  under  him 
for  comfort  and  the  sticks  on  either  side,  warmed  by  the  sun 
and  sheltered  from  the  breeze,  with  the  roadway  visible  to  his 
right  eye  and  the  workshop  to  his  left;  still,  in  semblance,  the 
dominating  spirit  of  the  yard.  His  sight  is  such  as  he  may  give 
thanks  for;  his  hearing  is  not  so  bad  but,  with  the  help  of  a 
hand,  he  can  hear  and  take  an  order — ^albeit  his  memory  has  a 
habit  of  forgetting  it  when  taken;  his  voice  is  strong  enough 
to  reach  the  workshop,  or  the  house  behind  his  back;  and  time 
has  softened  his  patriarchal  piety  to  a  wonderful  extent.  The 
sound  of  human  voices  is  consolatory  to  him.  He  never  re- 
bukes discourse,  or  bids  loquacity  to  hold  its  noise.  On  the 
contrary,  he  invites  it,  and  will  even  raise  one  stick  or  the 
other  in  signal  to  the  roadway  when  figures  pass,  as  testimony 
that  Joe  Bassiemoor  is  here  at  home  and  willing  to  receive  any 
such  callers  as  care  to  call  and  take  a  seat  upon  the  wooden 
bench  beside  him.  And  towards  his  own  son,  Fondie,  more  than 
to  any  other  has  the  wheelwright's  disposition  changed.  For 
he  has  utterly  and  publicly  discarded  the  mantle  of  authority 
that  once,  so  unremittingly,  he  wore.  Fondie*s  is  here  the 
power,  and  Fondie's  the  glory.  Nor  does  he  seek — as  many 
fathers  do,  reduced  by  impotence  to  this  sad  last  extremitj' — 
to  keep  his  own  undoubted  excellences  alive  by  depreciation  of 
his  son's,  earning  that  respect  for  himself  by  criticism 
that  he  can  no  longer  compel  by  labor.  On  the  contrary, 
Fondie's  is  the  name  he  quotes,  and  Fondie  it  is  to  whom  all 
matters  are  referred.  Fondie '11  do  this;  Fondie'll  do  that. 
Aye !  Fondie'll  understand.  If  he  dizn't,  there's  neabody  else 
will.  Fondie  has  no  parallel  in  the  world.  There  is  none 
like  unto  Fondie;  no,  not  one.  If  Fondie  Bassiemoor  had 
ever  sought  to  take  revenge  upon  his  parent  for  severities  suf- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  503 

fered  at  the  latter's  hands  In  youth,  he  could  not  have  had  it 
more  poetically  displayed  than  in  the  dependence  to  which  his 
filial  attentions  have  reduced  the  wheelwright.  It  Is  pathetic 
to  see  with  what  dependent  eyes  the  old  man  follows  him  about 
the  yard,  as  If  existence  hung  upon  this  act  of  sight  and  to  lose 
his  son  from  view  were  to  put  life  in  jeopardy.  Not  that 
Fondie  takes  advantage  of  such  undisguised  dependence.  He 
appeals  to  the  wheelwright's  opinion  almost  as  much  as  In  the 
past,  and  it  is  only  in  the  wheelwright's  answers  that  the  altered 
relationship  Is  revealed;  for  the  wheelwright  no  longer  bids 
him  **Hod  thy  noise!"  or  comments,  "If  thoo  can't  do  it  wi'oot 
asking,  It's  time  thoo  could!"  but  much  more  probably  rejoins: 
"Nay !  Thoo  mun't  ask  me,  lad.  Thoo  can  do  It  well  enough 
wi'oot.     Fse  an  aud  man.     I'se  no  use  tl  anybody,  noo." 

The  sun  pours  down  upon  the  wheelwright's  beard — that  is 
tow-colored  and  flaxen  still,  and  will,  in  all  probability,  never 
attain  any  nearer  than  this  degree  to  a  snowy  and  venerable 
hue.  From  the  yard-end,  to  those  who  do  not  know  it,  It 
gives  the  sitter  the  semblance  of  being  wrapped  up  In  a  blanket, 
and  Is,  beyond  all  question,  a  wonderful  example  of  Its  species. 
With  the  acquirement  of  years  and  leisure  the  wheelwright  has 
discarded  the  chewing  of  the  cud  (which,  consequently,  he  is 
now  at  liberty  to  condemn  In  others  as  a  slothful  and  uncleanly 
habit)  and  gives  himself  the  more  Christian  solace  of  a  pipe. 
And  such  a  pipe  he  Is  smoking  with  evident  enjoyment,  judging 
by  the  length  of  the  pulls  he  takes  at  it  and  the  noise  his  lips 
make  about  Its  gum-fretted  stem,  when  Fondle  Basslemoor 
puts  his  head  ecstatically  from  the  workshop  door  and  says: 

"Do  you  hear  yon,  father?" 

The  wheelwright  takes  the  pipe-stem  from  his  lips  to  ask: 

"Yon  what?" 

"Yon  bells,  father,"  Fondle  tells  him.  "Hark!  You 
couldn't  hear  them  much  plainer  without  wind  was  very  fair. 
Aye!  There  they  go.  He'll  be  married  by  this  time,  sure 
enough." 


S04  FONDIE 

"Who'll  be  married?"  the  wheelwright  inquired,  listening 
to  the  blue  sky  as  Fondie  did,  with  his  pipe  still  held  a  couple 
of  inches  from  his  lips,  to  be  ready  when  they  should  return 
to  it. 

"Why  .  .  .  Mr.  Lancelot,  father.  You  haven*t  forgotten  ?" 
Fondie  adjured  him.     "Surely!" 

The  wheelwright  took  a  silent  pull  at  the  pipe-stem  as  an 
easy  method  of  indicating  that  he  had. 

"Where's  he  being  married?'*  he  asked  next  moment. 
"Mersham?" 

"Nay,  he's  not  being  married  at  Mersham,"  Fondie  an- 
swered. "Mersham  isn't  grand  enough  for  such  as  her.  She 
needs  a  grander  place  than  Mersham.  Married  in  London, 
father!"  he  said,  raising  his  voice  to  make  sure  that  the  infor- 
mation should  reach  the  wheelwright's  understanding  that  it 
had  reached  a  dozen  times  before.  "But  he'll  be  coming  to 
live  at  Mersham  before  so  long  now,"  he  told  the  old  man. 
"They'll  both  be  coming.  Before  month's  out  they'll  both  be 
there.  And  I  hope  they'll  be  spared,"  he  added  piously,  "to 
live  in  it  with  health  and  happiness  for  many  years  to  come. 
The  old  place  doesn't  look  like  same  now,  father.  I  want  to 
drive  you  over  one  of  these  afternoons,  now  workmen  are 
getting  to  an  end,  and  let  you  have  a  look  round." 

"Nay,  not  me;  not  me!"  demurred  the  wheelwright,  suck- 
ing with  swift  emotion  at  the  pipe-stem.  "I'se  an  aud  man. 
I'se  no  good  to  gan  onnywheers,  Mersham's  over-grand  for 
syke  as  me." 

"Mr.  Lancelot  dizn*t  think  so,  father,"  Fondie  assured  him. 
"Mr.  Lancelot  said  himself  I  was  to  be  sure  and  take  you." 

"Mr.  Lancelot  never  did!  When  did  he?"  the  wheelwright 
returned,  with  signs  of  agitation  about  his  beard. 

"Why,  last  time  he  wrote  to  me,  father,"  Fondie  answered 
him.  "He  said  I  was  to  be  sure  and  take  you,  and  let  you 
have  a  good  look  round,  so  that  you  could  tell  him  what  you 
think  of  it." 


FONDIE  SOS 

"Not  him !"  the  wheelwright  said ;  but  the  edification  visible 
on  his  brow  belied  his  words.  "Mr.  Lancelot  dizn*t  want  to 
know  what  I  think  on  it.  Mr.  Lancelot  dizn't  want  to  be 
bothered  wi'  what  aud  men  thinks.  Mr.  Lancelot's  a  young 
man;  he  wants  young  opinions,  not  aud." 

But,  this  depreciative  assessment  of  his  own  worth  made,  he 
was  prompt  to  ask  Fondie:  "Did  you  think  on,  now,  to  thank 
Mr.  Lancelot?" 

".  .  .  You  may  be  sure  I  did,  father,"  Fondie  answered. 
"I  thanked  him  for  us  both.  I  thanked  him  for  you  as  well 
as  me." 

"Not  that  he  wants  my  thanks,"  the  wheelwright  reflected, 
falling — after  this  reassurance — into  his  vein  of  pessimism  once 
more.  "He  can  do  wi'oot  them.  He  can  get  plenty  o*  folk  to 
thank  him  wi'oot  me.  More  folk  by  half  than  he'll  know  what 
to  do  with.  Folk  is  ready  to  thank  a  gentleman  like  him  for 
anything  or  nothing.  They've  got  their  hand  to  their  forelock, 
very  nigh,  before  he's  chance  to  look  at  'em.  Where's  thoo 
gannin?" 

"Why  .  .  .  I  just  thought  I'd  go  and  take  a  look  at  church- 
yard, father,"  Fondie  told  him,  but  without  the  ancient  diffi- 
dence based  on  the  consciousness  of  paternal  displeasure. 
"Frank's  i'  workshop.  If  you  want  anything  you've  only  to 
call  him.  I  shan't  be  long.  Why  ...  I  mustn't  be  long," 
he  added,  admonishing  himself,  "for  I've  got  to  go  to  Mersham 
this  afternoon  and  help  wi'  childer.  They're  having  games 
and  tea  in  park,  yonder.  Day  couldn't  have  been  finer  for 
them,  or  Mr.  Lancelot,  or  anybody.  Now  is  there  anything  I 
can  do  for  you  before  I  go?" 

No.  There  was  nothing  the  wheelwright  could  think  of. 
The  wheelwright's  memory  was  plainly  going.  Once  upon  a 
time  the  question  would  have  furnished  him  with  many  things 
to  think  of  and  to  utter. 

Fondie  said,  "Very  well,  then,  father  .  .  ."  and  took  his 
leave. 


So6  FONDIE 

He  walked  with  a  businesslike  step  to  the  churchyard,  to  the 
spot  where  he  and  Mr.  Lancelot  had  stood  so  often  during  their 
few  last  weeks  together,  five  years  ago.  The  mound  of  yellow 
clay  and  wilted  sods  had  given  place,  since  those  days,  to  a 
heavy  wheel-cross  and  curb  of  gray  granite,  that  stood  out 
strikingly  against  the  weathered  ledgers  and  discolored  head- 
stones round  about;  for  the  Vicar,  too,  lay  in  the  same  grave 
with  his  wife  and  daughter;  and  this  memorial  had  been  raised 
by  Fondie  Bassiemoor  and  others  of  the  parish  to  mark  their 
resting  place.  The  grass  within  the  curb  was  very  green  and 
very  level,  for  Fondie  kept  it  so.  The  care  of  this  sacred  spot 
attached  to  his  most  undelegatable  duties.  Once  in  ten  days,  or 
in  every  fortnight  at  the  least,  he  paid  it  a  custodial  visit;  not 
with  any  morbid  or  melancholy  devotion — for  of  such  he  was 
devoid — but  with  the  same  spirit  of  cheerful  regularity  in 
which,  by  night,  he  wound  up  his  watch.  With  Blanche's 
death  all  questionings  and  doubts  were  stilled.  The  fate  that 
took  her  was,  not  less,  his  own.  He  accepted  it  and  let  his 
lips  smile  henceforth  in  speaking  of  that  and  her,  as  her  own 
lips  had  seemed  to  smile  in  regard  to  death  and  him  when  he 
looked  at  them  upon  her  pillow.  And  this  morning  he  had 
come  to  visit  her  with  the  cheerfullest  and  friendliest  intention. 
He  had  come  to  visit  her  on  Mr.  Lancelot's  wedding  day,  and 
stand  by  her  side  whilst  the  bells  rang  out  from  Mersham, 
asking  her  (in  the  spirit,  just  as  he  had  asked  his  father  in  the 
flesh)  if  she  heard  them,  and  knew  for  whom  and  in  whose 
honor  they  pealed.  And  his  spirit  knew  full  well  she  an- 
swered, "Yes,"  and  wished  her  erstwhile  friend  all  joy  and 
happiness  in  the  state  of  life  which  Destiny  had  denied  to  her. 
She  had  no  jealousies  towards  the  living.  Why  should  she 
have?  There  was  but  one  life,  and  she  was  part  of  it,  as  he 
was.  Each  night  he  slept  this  life  of  his  sank  into  darkness 
and  oblivion,  and  for  all  he  knew  of  it,  or  it  of  him,  it  might 
have  never  been.  And  jTt  it  was.  And  so — who  should  say 
otherwise? — it  was  with  her.     Five  years  she  had  been  dead — 


F  O  N  D  I  E  507 

as  people  reckon  death — and  still  she  was  his  friend;  still  he 
came  to  visit  her,  like  this,  and  stood  beside  her  grave,  or  looked 
at  it  each  Sunday,  and  sometimes  brought  his  troubles  here 
that  she  might  share  them,  and  his  perplexities,  that  her  clear 
lips  might  solve  them.  And  w^hen  he  doubted  or  desponded, 
how  often  had  he  heard  her  voice  exhort  him:  "Don't  be  a 
silly  fool,  Fondie!  I  know  it's  sickening;  but  never  mind. 
Don't  care.     Be  a  man." 

Since  she  had  been  laid  to  rest,  others  in  those  five  years  had 
come  to  join  her:  her  father;  Fondie's  mother,  not  so  far 
away — sleeping  not  less  peacefully  or  less  beloved  beneath  her 
less  pretentious  stone;  and  some,  too,  whose  tongue  had  helped 
to  build  the  whispering  fabric  of  her  trouble,  but  whose  offenses 
now  were  lost  in  the  great  understanding,  like  the  beams  of 
some  flickering  taper  that  is  quenched  in  the  light  of  day. 

At  the  vicarage  another  man  of  God  is  now  installed — a 
younger  than  the  last;  clean-shaven,  spruce,  and  energetic  as 
yet  with  the  interests  of  his  new  life  and  duties;  who  addresses 
Fondie  punctiliously  as  "Mr.  Bassiemoor"  and  pays  him  not  a 
little  deference  as  a  man  of  import  in  the  parish.  Providence 
has  endowed  him  with  a  family — two  sons  and  a  little  five- 
year-old  daughter  with  flaxen  hair,  who  is  already  one  of 
Fondie's  firmest  friends,  and  interrogates  him  most  closely  re- 
specting the  BLANCHE  whose  name  is  chiseled  in  portentous 
capitals  upon  the  step  of  the  great  granite  cross,  and  who  had 
once  actually  inhabited  the  very  house  she  lives  in.  And  the 
aud  hoose  has  new  tenants  too:  nice,  quiet,  undistinguished 
business  people  from  Hunmouth,  with  evidences  of  more  money 
at  their  disposal  than  the  old  tenants  had  enjoyed,  and  a  family 
of  six  noisy,  healthy  girls  and  boys.  All  the  potential  elements 
of  tragedy  are  here  again;  recast  into  the  melting-pot  of  life, 
that  seems  to  keep  itself  eternal  through  the  crucible  of  sorrow 
and  the  alembic  of  the  grave. 

And  now  his  friend — his  friend  at  heart,  however  clad  before 
the  world  with  terms  of  deference  and  conduct  of  respect — his 
33 


So8  F  O  N  D  I  E 

friend  of  old  was  coming  back  into  his  life  once  more.  Not  to 
the  aud  hoose  of  ineffable  and  sacred  memories,  but  to  the 
great  house  of  Mersham  after  all;  to  the  home  that  was  ac- 
knowledged his  at  last.  So  now  he  would  have  to  believe  in 
God,  and  make  much  of  Him,  as  his  grandfather  had  said,  and 
sit  each  Sunday  in  the  big  armorial  pew  where  once  Sir  Lance- 
lot and  that  other  one  had  sat  before  they  passed  away  to  that 
great  Unity  where  Blanche  and  all  her  fellow-dead  were  joined. 
He  pondered  over  these  things,  standing  by  her  grave  in  the 
wonderful  sunlight  of  that  June  morning,  filled  with  every  hue 
and  sound  and  fragrance  that  made  life  lovely,  and  let  his 
simple  heart  enjoy  the  unimaginable  wonders  wrought  by  a 
destiny  beyond  the  comprehension  of  such  finite  minds  as  his. 
It  seemed  a  dream,  even  with  the  bells  to  waft  its  reality  over 
his  understanding,  and  the  more  unreal  by  reason  of  them — 
in  whose  music  always  Fondie's  world  dissolved  into  that 
mystic  world  compounded  far  more  largely  of  his  own 
emotions,  infinite  and  inexpressible,  than  of  the  substantial 
elements  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  A  dream.  Yes,  even 
as  all  life's  loveliest  and  sweetest  qualities  are  dreams,  inas- 
much as  they  are  the  farthest  remote  from  the  grosser  subsoil 
from  which  they  spring.  And  yet  no  dream,  he  knew,  but  a 
blessed  reality — if  reality  is  more  blessed  than  its  fellow- 
dreams!  For  what  imports  it  whether  things  be  realities  or 
dreams  so  long  as  they  be  lovely  and  harmless?  Little  differ- 
ence is  there  between  things  done  and  things  dreamed  of,  save 
the  inessential  element  of  doing.  Things  once  done  subsist 
by  dreaming  of  them,  and  without  dreaming  all  fact  is  death. 
Yet  human  nature  clings  to  fact,  as  human  nature  clings  to  its 
own  clay,  and  Fondle,  too,  was  not  completely  free  from  the 
affection  of  his  imperfect  kind  for  the  so-called  truth  of  fact 
and  flesh  and  blood.  Had  he  not  seen  Mr.  Lancelot's  bride 
(that  but  this  very  hour  was)  with  his  own  eyes,  and  had  he 
not  shaken  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him,  saying  in  a  voice 
suffused  with  friendship  and  tinged  with  a  pleasant  American- 


F  O  N  D  I  E  sop 

ism:  "You're  Mr.  Fondie  Bassiemoor,  I'm  sure.  I  don't  need 
to  be  told  that  much.  I'm  just  charmed  to  meet  you."  And 
was  not  he  appointed  virtual  supervisor  over  Mersham  during 
the  elaborate  renovations  that  had  been  proceeding  there  these 
past  six  months;  with  keys  of  his  own  to  use  on  all  the  doors 
just  as  he  listed,  and  supreme  power  to  come  and  go  and  ask 
and  question — powers  practically  unlimited,  because  he  was 
Fondie  Bassiemoor  and  Mr.  Lancelot's  "oldest  friend,  Sadie,'* 
and  could  be  safely  trusted  even  with  the  infinite  powers  of  the 
Destroying  Angel's  self?  And  had  not  Mr.  Lancelot  told 
him  to  look  on  Mersham  as  his  second  home,  and  pledged  the 
assurance  with  his  own  warm  hand:  "Whatever  else,  Fondie, 
I  shall  always  be  at  home  to  you.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 
And  was  not  Mersham  now  to  be  reckoned  among  those  most 
abundant  blessings  that  Providence  had  showered  on  him? 
His  life  was  veritably  filled  with  friendships,  interests,  activi- 
ties, and — yes!  he  might  even  count  that  blessing  with  them 
too — prosperity.  Already  he  had  shaped  toward  fulfillment 
that  long  cherished,  too  long  neglected  project  of  the  restoration 
of  the  old  organ  in  the  disused  loft  at  Whivvle.  Since  the 
Vicar's  death  he  had  given  it  from  time  to  time  deep  thought. 
He  had  read  books  on  organ  structure;  he  had  studied  living 
organs  in  the  district;  he  had  tried  his  hand  at  wood  carving, 
with  promising  results.  Mr.  Lancelot,  no  doubt,  would  help 
him  ultimately  in  the  composition  of  a  suitable  inscription,  for 
the  work  was  destined  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  Rever- 
end Henry  Bellwood  and  his  beloved  daughter  Blanche,  who 
worshiped  God  in  the  church,  and  departed  this  life  on  the 
such-and-such  days  of  the  months  of  so-and-so,  respectively. 
And  Mr.  Lancelot,  had  he  not  espoused  the  idea  with  warmth, 
saying  that  it  would  be  like  old  times,  and  that  Fondie  must 
let  him  come  and  help  him  now  and  then,  when  Mr.  Lance- 
lot was  in  residence  at  Mersham? 

Ah,  well !     He  had  no  cause  for  sadness  or  repining.    Much 
happiness  was  his;  great  blessings  had  fallen  to  his  lot — ^were 


Sio  F  O  N  D  I  E 

falling  still.  The  larger  part  of  life — reckoned  in  terms  of 
human  probability — was  still  before  him.  At  heart,  in  body, 
he  was  still  a  boy;  still  by  five  years  short  of  the  thirty  that 
might  be  said  to  set  the  seal  on  manhood.  Before  his  soul  was 
still  a  wondrous  journey  through  the  mystic  paths  of  life; 
strange  beauties,  yet  unrealized,  for  the  eyes  of  his  soul  to  rest 
on ;  blossoms  of  lovely  sorrow  and  of  starlike  joy  for  the  fingers 
of  his  soul  to  pluck.  In  this  soul  of  his,  perhaps,  he  had  been 
most  blest  of  all,  for  no  matter  how  hard  the  world  might  seem 
or  be  to  read,  his  soul  had  skill  to  construe  and  translate  it. 
Some  men  are  born  to  fortune,  family,  and  fame;  others  are 
born  with  qualities  of  hand  and  head,  of  craft  and  power. 
Let  all  these  nurse  the  gifts  they  have,  and  draw  such  conso- 
lation from  them  as  they  can.  But  Fondie  Bassiemoor  was 
born  with  that  far  rarer  thing — a  soul.  Not  all  men — despite 
what  theologians,  even  of  the  pectoral  school,  may  argue — are 
born  with  that.  Some  men  come  into  being  with  nothing  but 
the  organs  designed  to  serve  their  bodies'  needs ;  neither  with  a 
soul  nor  the  rudest  embryo  of  one  that  diligence  can  cultivate 
into  the  least  account ;  men  as  destitute  of  soul  as  others  are  of 
riches,  health,  good  name,  music,  mathematics,  or  poetrj'.  But 
Fondie — to  whom  it  brought  comfort  as  exceeding  great  as 
that  the  Mersham  Rector  derived  from  horses,  bulls,  Sir  Lance- 
lot, and  his  wife's  connexions — ^had  a  soul  for  his  inheritance; 
and  by  the  graveside  of  his  soul's  friend  gave  thanks  for  it, 
letting  his  soul  taste  thus  the  sweet  delights  of  its  own  grati- 
tude, and  know  by  the  thrill  of  pleasant  thankfulness  going 
through  it  that  it  still  was  swiftly,  wholesomely  alive. 

And  in  that  spirit  of  simple  thankfulness  he  took  leave  of  his 
soul's  dearest  friend,  threading  his  way — one  might  say  almost 
blithely — through  the  weathered  emblems  of  the  dead,  that 
leaned  to  this  side  and  to  that  above  the  tall  June  grasses  ripen- 
ing for  the  Vicar's  pony.  Emblems  of  the  dead?  For  Fon- 
die's  eyes  there  were  no  dead ;  this  was  no  place  of  them.  Here 
was  a  very  pleasant  little  hamlet  of  the  immortal  blest;  of 


FONDIE  S" 

those  made  free  of  life  by  death.  Memories  lived  on  all  sides 
of  him;  names  familiar  and  friendly;  tombstones  affable  and 
communicative,  that  invited  him  to  stay  and  read  and  hold  a 
little  amicable  converse  with  them  on  such  a  day  as  this,  beneath 
so  soft  a  sky  and  warm  and  bright  a  sun.  And  lovely  though 
the  day  might  seem  to  fleshly  visions,  what  wondrous  beauties 
were  not  spiritually  displayed  to  Fondie's  subtler,  simpler  sight? 
Bells,  blossoms,  birds,  friendships,  blessings,  and  glories  seemed 
rioting  in  unparalleled  profusion  everywhere,  and  death  and 
life — stretching  out  hands  of  fellowship  and  rapture  in  the 
eternal  radiance  of  the  sunlit  world — made  one ;  a  chain  rhap- 
sodic, endless  and  unbroken.  "Finally,  brethren  .  .  ." — the 
old  words  that  always,  at  such  moments,  hovered  dovelike  about 
his  mind,  floated  beatifically  down  upon  him  as  he  took  his 
leave — "whatsoever  things  are  true;  whatsoever  things  are 
honest;  whatsoever  things  are  just;  whatsoever  things  are 
lovely;  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report;  if  there  be  any 
virtue  and  if  there  be  any  praise  .  .  .  think  on  these  things." 


a) 


^^s^'  "i.-^r- "":" 


1 


FEB  !&■&  ]^-^'i 


BOrnl/ie 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


